You are my squatters, my kneelers, my benders,
my bone on bone,
worn from eight decades of demand.
Hours of kneeling on a catholic bench,
kicking the ball on a dirt road,
times on my knees scrubbing parquet,
up and down filing and sorting charts.

The Krugerrand around your neck
hits me in the mouth

Nothing screams heresy 
more than cream and jam 
applied to one’s scone 
in the wrong order.

Mid-meal, I think of when
she made me noodles—iced
beef broth with julienne
cucumber, radish, sliced

Bang. Then buzz. Then clang. Then doom.
A marching band in a tin cocoon.
The table slides. My breath retreats.
My muscles lock. My heart skips beats.
Don’t move, they said. I swore, I won’t,
which means, of course—I might. I don’t.