MAGAZINE
When choirs of hours croon us as song, / Heave with each note, hold fast to each second, / Unchain your rapture let it breathe along / To each calm, storm, and all that love beckoned; / Let not your flame be lulled by melody’s gust,
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I have tied a knot at the end of each and every thought of you, with each word cast from my tongue I keep tossing each knot to your direction with the hope of catching your attention, even if it be a note that fell off your giggle when you were but a bit jolly yester night, or a slight glance that got caught by a broken window by a random ally when you turned to note a voice calling your name. I hope to rope it in and own it, embrace it and call it my own. Do you still think of...? in my absence, My crown, do you miss me?
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They have glued flat my tongue against the roof of my mouth, my words; i had attempted to store them beneath it, no -- rather -- these trifling words. Now, in lieu of my handicap, if it be not at all troublesome to you, may you please burden yourself with but a few letters thereof, and when you see Her, in Her ears arrange them gently.
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Poets do not die, / They flutter / militantly / Transposing eventualities / and acuity / death is alchemy / and range / it is paramountcy / Transcendence
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USonto umfun’eSunday School, Ilokoshe lim’fune 18 / USonto, uthi Jesu waseNazaretha, Ilokishi lithi Jesu waseSomhlolo / Lithi Scara mangubo, lithi Black Batho-batho, Jes’omnyama, Manyeu, Khaskethi, /Khamandane, Gudl’umkhonto, Nonjini, Mntungw’omnyana, Mangubo, Jezi Namba leveni, / Jes’o lang, o skraal nge-chiskop, Jes’omnyama ofana nobusuku, Black batho-batho mafak’igroza ngoleft.
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We are always scared that we might turn up dead tomorrow, and when we don’t, another woman dies instead. We wake up to the weight of the news like it is our own story because it is, because we are her, and she too was like us before she was taken. She too lived in a space of unknown seconds to come, she too was like us when she read of women who were stabbed, raped and brutally murdered by lovers, strangers, service consultants, friends, colleagues and relatives. We cry.
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