Dirty his name? The dirt was always there,
just carried under nails of struggling girls,
in rucksacks, tossed in cupboards, hidden, curled
in elbows, tucked between their hats and hair.
The dirt was always there, beneath the shine,
between the lines we thought we understood,
in laurel leaves we garland round the good,
in all his songs, in he who smashed the lines
of gender, art. He built a ship to space,
carried his love and dirt up to the moon.
I will not mourn. The tears will happen, soon,
but not for him. His magic, goblin face
is scarred with stolen hope: the fear of youth.
Gather his dirt; inter him with our truth.
This poem appeared as part of a longer article at The Establishment.