Showers: Two Perspectives
water courses over my limbs
making me my own river network
braiding and unbraiding
carrying away the salt and dust and weariness
the road laid down
opening my pores
letting my eyes see without clayed corners
unmatting my hair
unclogging my nails
leaving the clean damp sheen
of a free-breathing body
until I sigh and smile
and the boys cry
don’t make me do it!
desert sunset
in the desert
the sun rises and sets
in great pink sheets
laden with rosewood and incense
ushering a red-violet orb
to the dark side of day
Makgadikgadi Pans Bedtime Story
we lay ourselves down
on a flat white board
under an amber smile of newish moon
and saltspray of star and spiral arm
far from the reach of everything
breathing in the last breath
of expired ocean
letting the cations
melt negativity away
becoming a simple body
sleeping sound
back hugging ancient earth
under a baobab’s silent steady watch
good night
Tswapong Hills
o my ancestors
I pray for you I called by name every night
and you catch me unawares
slipping into my in-between states
not quite awake
not quite knowing what to do
reminding me
how you managed to live
long enough for
me to appear
now how may I best
honor your time?
offer you a cool drink of clear water
a shady canyon to rest your head
a wheel of vultures to look after you
a surprise in the deepest pool?
I ask humbly
knowing cured/cursed
are nearly one
The Serowe Museum has an exhibit on writer Bessie Head. She was born in South Africa to a white mother and black father, which was illegal. Our guide said it was lucky that the authorities hadn’t broken her neck. I had not heard of mixed race children being killed under apartheid, and I asked our main guide if that was true, which he confirmed. I wrote this poem reflecting on that. Now that we’re back in wifi, I have been Googling a bit and have not been able to substantiate that. Here is an account of what it was like to be an illegal mixed race child under apartheid, though. Trevor Noah’s autobiography, Born a Crime, also addresses this.
dark days in South Africa
there was a time
when black + white
equaled a little wrung neck
born babies accorded
no right to be
by some misguided man
dead sure of his
righteousness
stealing little whispers of breath
all to keep the world
less colored
yes people/no people
no people
stiffen
push their palms away
start shaking their head before you’ve finished
shut down their synapses
until all that’s left is
no
it’s not possible
they like to say
ensuring your fate’s in
someone else’s hands
yes people
smile
wave you in
squint one eye and purse their lips
searching for a way through
wrack their brains for a workaround
their only thought is
you’re fine
it’s no problem
they like to say
clasping your hand on this journey
we’re all making around the sun
