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.

Mosaic

I found you smashed tonight
No - not you
But my emblem,
My memory of you:

The mosaic plate you got me
For my 21st birthday,
Of Santa Maria Novella.

That time we went to Florence,
I opened the shutters into the square
And onto the world

I learnt you and Tata in a
New way then.
You snored gently,
Smelt of old,
Your mkhaba wrinkled but solid in your centre.

Tata took out his dentures

We spat watermelon pips in Rome

I started drinking coffee

I experience you as married

Not lovers, but companions.
With all the angles and curves
Accompanying that


I opened the shutters on
Santa Maria Novella square

And onto my life.
It snaked different ways after that trip.
I had a new palette for my joy
A new map

The square was dirty when I visited again
Years later

You were wizened
Hardened
Too much poison in your roots

I found you smashed today
Santa Maria Novella
Mixed with instant coffee
On my kitchen floor

I saw you disappear
Last Thursday
When I couldn't get you in the car
Your body is still too heavy for me

You were angry
As i pried your hand from the seat
You had to hold onto me so I could get you in

You disappeared as you held onto me

The stroke
The poison
Ate you

I won't see you again.

I will remember Santa Maria Novella,
Watermelon pips in Rome

I won't clean the kitchen floor.

Not for a week,

I guess.

honeysuckle

I am anticipating
The loneliest funeral

I will sit
With my small sister

Remembering angels flying down
Through the honey suckle

In a time and space
Where I still felt safe

Now I sit at 30
Everything is fragmented

I am happier than I expected to be
And sadder

But sitting on that church pew
I will be lonelier than I thought possible

Trying to say goodbye to some one
Who was only as real as the tin angel
Flying through the honey suckle