speaking with feral tongues 1. “earth my bodywater my blood” 2. what songs are thesethat scald our lipsand leave our tongueshot sand and grit numbin our mouths. what songs are thesehissed in bellow angerthat drives us beatingbeating palm to stretch skinunder a silence of cleared skywhere no sky had been seenbefore. songs of stump and…
this morning, most morningsfirst light, while the kettle warmsi take the short dew-walkbarefeet through the gardenup the drive to the goathouseto open the door for the day,release the two hens withtheir twenty two chicks between themlet the goats out among the treesscoop scraps around the balesfor the rabbits after tea there will be feedingand watering…
orientation lying in my bedlistening for the sunrisemy feet stretch northwarming my toes on the equator.right ear to the morning,left to the setting sun,my hair drifts southwards –tidal swirlings on an infinite sea. arms spreading east and westform the coastal beltouteniqua tstitsikama langeberg kougamountainous names that follow curvespeak in breasts with armpit valleysand soft catchments…
1.and what does the body rememberrain that runs rivulets down spine,cold stars, warm firehunt, chased, dancing, dancingthe earth so full of teemingthere was no tellingour heartbeat from the night. and who knewthis lonely silencewould come.this slow slide to comfortkeeping death from our doorsuntil death became the unspokenthe why of every moment of half living. does…
what if our hearts don’t have borders and love lives a long way away.
when park benches and schools were reserved for whites only and television only told one truth and russia was going to destroy us with communism or a nuclear bomb if america didn’t beat them to it, we rode our our bicycles in school holidays – ate popcorn and green apples along new roads rolling out…
they were made for this sky. wings shaped by this wind that rushes and flows over bent trees and low roofs tossing them back to the gods who named them, formed them wisp feathers of drizzle and grey-shadow, of sodden silhouette black and the startled white of light breaking below the clouds illuminating their flight…
it is hard to look into the face of love never returned hard to look away hard to know what of herself she has yielded what of herself she has set aside to be here. today there are only half sentences she leaves her fingers to walk the story across the counter between us, picking…