They stand as a symbol for equality
A driving map for the ways of the world
They stand, a cumbersome weight
Carried by the hope of remembrance
Stuck between the bark of cinnamon, orange peel

and coconut shells
But they do not tear
After all, this is the way it begins

They have been crafted by sinewy hands
So thin the bones show through
The dark translucence slipped over what is called a being
They have climbed trees to retrieve
The fruits of the air, creating tortoise shell moroccos
Hanging, threatening to spill all they contain onto to ever absorbing sand
They have been crafted by hands, sticky with coconut breathe
But yet ever so delicately create drawing models for society
They sit, sand burying their feet
Holding knives that slice bark away from bone
And wait

They have been crafted to show equality
No emotion
Their mouths erased
when their language was lost to the breeze
No longer echoed,
No longer a barrier
Nothing is ever permanent

Their ears carved off
Silencing the hums of lava
The rumblings of cinnamon and forgotten thoughts
Society is the equivalent of equality

Their senses have been lost
Never to feel the alligator skin of an avocado
Or suck its sweet green pulp
Or to remember how the particular loses itself

or be forever questioned
invisible brushstrokes painted on nonexistent lips
Unspoken words