We are the genetic dispossessed,
born not of man and woman, but of graft
and gutter; we are blown upon your draft
and rooted in the mud. We manifest
in khaki dreams of dark, forbidden breast
and echo on your screens. You used to craft
a turban from a towel – oh, how you laughed
and called us names. Would you have ever guessed
that when you’d grown, the names would be the same?
But not in jest -- in ridicule and shame.
Did you imagine children in the sand
with castles made of bone, a rousing game
of Blind Man’s Buff, or Little Lucy’s Lame?
It’s your turn at the dice: hold out your hand.