In the morning the sun rises and sets in the iris of my eyes
Dawn whispers with the breath of lovemaking and sin –regret, and my baby
The face that belongs to me, I love her and she is mine
There is hope here.
I have seen how even when the river flows from the corner of my sky, fires still burns.
Volcanoes become small miracles ignited by the grave hovering in these dying dreams.
When will the burning build mountains in my palm?
I don’t know, but I look for a new day.
The soil reeks of something that we belong to, deeply within the personhood that dwells
within the wells of knowledge that is us.
The longing is in place, right where our immortal longings belong.
5pm Johannesburg, the map of Africa and her womb lay sprawling in between her teeth
and her toes
drinks with friends
the cigarette and the men, the next pull, mangaliso is the
goriila who holds time in the spectrum of silence and music, hello, he says
And the world ends.
This is how breaking starts, I feel it in the way he stares.
He has already planned my death. I crave the cemetery just by looking into his mouth.
War is surely a thing worth falling for.
I will always fall for the war, It’s always fair.
It burns so deep within my existence, I cannot explain.
It is my portion, to allow love to exist as it may.
Sex and the dancing skirts of history, I love him
When I am asleep his name is the morning breath of my childrens names
Child
Listen, your hips and the men in between are the fear of faith in between your thighs
Bukhulu, Greatness, when the song begins
Find.
Even when you have forgotten your blood.
Even when shadows claim their hold on your breath, creep in, find a corner in cracking
walls. There will always be dying when a new home awaits.
Remember your blood never forgets you.
And in you lies the spark that deems the day brand new.
Reciprocity will be learnt from you, reparations will be lived through you.
The mother of music and her tongue click within the placenta of my hurt
My word
Amen
Amen
Men
Silence, and the scorching tongue of my music
Hello, he says.
This how the breaking will always begin.
I know this is how my skin will purge the act of love, how even through the shattering
song echoed by the dead.
My eyes know shores, the drowning is only a formality.
And I will always know when I am giving more.
I have been given more.
Continents are the fabrics that I am built with, I will love you in a way that is beyond
being.
Don’t try me.
