I am smoke and Sunday lunch.
My wilting skin is the dying dog’s whimper,
My hands, the smell of candle wax.
I am a mouth full of tombstones,
and stories moulded from wind and dragon scales.
I am the Burning Impimpi,
the screaming blood flooding your conscience.
The secrets in Mandela’s coffin
And the failed revolutions buried in briefcases.
I am the infection of a wound untreated.
The missing bone and feathers.
I am a fire pool,
full of bloated flamingos
and ballot papers.
I am the snake in my own chest.
The sound of shattering glass,
The loneliness of ageing,
And the fly on a baby’s face.
I am the knife in my uncle’s hand,
The open flesh on his brother’s chest
I am My fathers face when he received the news
And that moment when we turned our backs,
and left you there, alone, under the soil.
I am, currently, without semblance
Searching
for shape
For body,
For agency
I am water,
Searching for a moment
to contain all of me.