For the albinos in Tanzania
What are elbows?
What are elbows?
Elbows is the stump on my right as
pure as my tears,
as innocent as my screams; a
reminder of my darkest past.
My elbow is my hand and my fingers
and my hatred.
The pearl-colored sheen reflects our
glorious sun.
It represents my blacken spirit, the
horrors of men who
denigrate my being with the charcoal
in their souls.
My scarlet pains exchanged for their hearty gains,
and my ashy hugs for a couple of
emerald bucks.
Why did you make me extraordinary?
Why did I have to be exceptional?
In this world, the uncommon are sold
as common goods in the shadows.
I am worshiped as I am discounted.
Dishonor and worthiness are neighbors
across a blurred line.
Like a broken snowflake in heat of
summer,
my arm sits on a rotting table, waiting
to create village legends
that would inspire the generation of
more elbow broods.
Thoughtless superstitions.
Do they not know that our hurt is
real?
My silver tip reflects the glorious
son.
It hardens from the axe that took my
agony.
It resolves from the bad that took my
anguish.
My Lord, you created me. I burn like
the phoenix you intended me to be.
My elbows signify the end of my persecution.
My elbows signify a new beginning
for us all.
It is time to hack reckless superstitions off my home.
