grief finds flight

There is no time for grief
In this fight
But the grief wells up
Overflows

She must grow into something else

Through our bodies
She finds flight

I wonder what bird she will become?

I wonder where her feathers,
As they grow into our arms,
Will take us?

For the guns

The guns crawled out of themselves
They left their metal carcasses
Like that student struggled out of his coat
As the policemen wrestled him

He escaped
Black
Black
Into the night

The police were left
With the ghost of the coat
Still asking them
‘what did I do?’

The guns heard
They crawled out of themselves
Leaving the police with their metal carcasses

They slipped into the throat
Of the student
In the head wrap

They thought they would find food
In her rage

This is what they are used to being fed on

Instead they found themselves
Abandoned
Even by her

Caught in the web of the question
She kept asking the policemen

“How can you not see that you are killing your child?”

The guns wept
Because policemen couldn't weep


- written in the aftermath of the police violence at the UJ Night Vigil on the 13th November 2015.
See

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3qiXOXgpwM

Wizard. Witch. Sage

I am part wizard
Part witch
Part sage

Part humble
Part hubris

Part book shelf
Part wine rack

Part archive
Part stage

Part classroom
Part hand-in-hand sweat

Part hidden in footsteps
Collecting the imprints

Part standing on beach
Commanding the waves

Part heart of the march
Part inch above the head

Part sleep
Part death
Part umbilical cord

Part past
Part hope

Part you’ll-never-believe-me
Part challenge me, I’ll swallow you
Part hold me I’m hurting
Part Superhuman

Part dancing
Part weeping

Part wizard. Part witch. Part sage.

Heritage day

What do I wear on heritage day?

A map of stolen land
A veil of screams

Rape

High heeled shoes
Made of bones
Of slavery

Rings of border wars,
Indentured labour

Arm ornaments
Beaded delicately
In languages lost

Necklaces
Of bullets
Collected from bodies

My hair tied with rainbows
That double as nooses?

I will wear nothing.
Not even words.

I will just wait for Nonqawuse
And the New People
to rise from the soil

Trophy

Yesterday
I heard that the man who
Raped my friend
Speaks of the accusation:
"This chick is accusing me of rape".
He speaks of it
Almost with pride.
A subtle boasting
For this particular conquest.

I have decided to honour his
Treatment of this:

The next time I see him
I will cut his penis off,
Hand it to him to mount on his wall
A trophy
To commemorate this rape.

On agency and the moon

I would like to be the moon
Not talk to or be lit up by
Or have the moon activate my
Longing or nostalgia or womb

Not to see the moon as her
Or paint a smiley face on it
With my monthly bleeding
Because that is
Where feminine is and isn’t

And I am tired of the rage and the pain and the love.

No.
I would just like to be the moon

A lump of rock, silent
No thoughts
No conflict over agency

A peaceful species

Dead, alive,
Malleable and fixed.

And silent

Or far away enough that no one could tell the difference.

Death and the King

Death sits silently
At the back of the audience

Her eyes focused on the king
She taps, with her toes

Her rages begin to hum.

She breathes – gently
Although she doesn’t need the breath
This has been her project

Personal and pointed
Apart from her soul-collecting work

She feels the heat with her hands
This person at the back

And this person
The person in the corner
And the person outside in tears

Death sighs
Although she doesn’t need the breathe
This is her work
Pointed and personal

Apart from the soul collecting
Death begins – silently, slowly
to dance

And as the crowd cheer the king
The ground begins to shake

Death is calling her rages

They are ancient rages, and new ones
Born and reborn

From this silence
From this burning

The King opens his mouth
Death opens hers

As he begins to speak
She begins to sing


Her rages squirm themselves
Out from under the floor

Their humming holds them together

Death directs her eyes
Towards this corner
Towards those tears

Her rages fly
Scream, burn

The audiences hear nothing

But this corner,
Those tears, are held in flames
by the rages


They hum themselves into the bodies
Death closes her eyes

The King’s days, she knows, are numbered
The rages will warm the corners, the tears, enough to take the king in his sleep
To take the king in his talk

And the rages will return to her

The King’s days are numbered, she knows.
But he is just one king.
That she knows, also.