Someone put his hands into this plate
and it never got out.
My brother said so, when we gathered
under the thick mango tree in the village square.
There were chants of royalty, gold upon a head.
We called him father, cause his son was my brother.
Someone will put his hands into this plate
and so will I, his son always said.
Nights after nights we levied on his wisdom
when he picked up paint brushes and sketched new sons.
Out of rocks he gathered dust and spat it upon today,
he built a leader and like Joshua he lead.
If when we sat on his table, we saw the words
“Someone will put his hands into this plate
let it not be you”.
His love was colorless
there had to be no boundaries.
If he was home, he taught us to be windows.
If he was the sun, he thought us to rule the night-stars.
He quieted troubles between weeds and food.
He wanted grasses to grow tall,
so he would bury our seeds as we pray for a bountiful heritage
When on his crown we saw the halo rewriting
Someone has to eat from this plate
shall it be you?
Today I am sitting with an absent father
who is deaf to air, but dumb to life
Alive to death, and a light in the dark.
He left with his two hands,
And one he called his son.
I hear strangers ate with him as he dipped his hands
Into the plate that labelled
The one that puts his hands, leaves with his staff.
Who has killed our father, our silence now asks?
Please let somebody answer.