Not Yet A Ghost

Yes, but what of our bodies?
The sweat and the suffering?
What of the taste of those so sweet?
What of our tongues?
Those branches of human love
Reaching,
Reaching to spring life from our tips
And more, What of our scars?
The story of our pain
The collective sigh writ large on shades of gray
A map of our sores you can follow into oblivion
My father is living in a world of coffins.
Every day is a protest.
"I will not be swallowed whole"
He does not scream but
I do
I have grown hoarse from yelling lullabies in the dark