We were often taken at times by the light
breaking in the window, pilfering brilliant holes
within our bodies like cinema sunsets.
Since our bodies too were casualties of thought
we collected organs in bed with palms
learning how to play for the first time – you
you with that tambourine skin
my selfish percussion, testing the nodes
under your nipple for music
softly braying under my tongue… I tell you –
I am deeply frustrated by things I can no longer remember.
Unused condoms sit in our back pockets like rejected alibi
for when our obsessions turned violent
we forgot our bodies, lapping nipples in defense.
I lost my tongue to the forbidden shores of your silhouette thigh –
were we ever made of flesh then? I remember.
Sex became a benumbing barbiturate, a sly modesty,
a drunk ritual meant only for our conscience.
In the night your hands search my body for missing limbs,
your fingers reel in wet circles on my skin
retracing those afternoon holes in the window.
My name is Tumello Motabola, I am 19, I enjoy poetry (obviously) I enjoy Clifton Gachagua, Czeslaw Milosz and Mongane wally Serote. I enjoy the kind of poetry does not necessarily place meaning or much emphasis in the words so much as emotion. I guess its something semi-prose but still structured. Clifton Gachagua has mastered. I am Lesotho..which is technically in South Africa! I am young and I am learning and writing and will definitely still be writing in the future.