We are the striking and the rock
Called to the altar to be christened in the name of
‘Buried in a shallow grave’ in the name of
‘Suspended from God’s grace’

They have been striking, we are the rock
To be discarded:
Beneath things
Behind things
Inside things
Remaining, Silent things

Rakgadi, ga o a tshwara thipa ka mo bogaleng
You are the massacre behind it
The sphandla feeding off of their wrists
They are skipping stones with your bones
Willing you to hold yourself above water
As if to say “where is your Jesus now”?
As if to say “where is the liberator of Israelites now”?
As if to say “how many amens can we usher between your ribcage now”?

Koko danced herself into a casket
Offering her blood as a tablecloth
She is skin, melting away at the seams,
Offering her rupture as a chorus
She is still stitching her marrow together with her split ends
They don’t quite math her crumbling nature,
But Koko still lays myriads of skin as prayer mats

She has always been the chanting, the chanting, the chanting before the sacrifice
The summoning and the spirit
The renewal and the becoming
The slaughter and the cleansing
Amen

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