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back and go and come back and I shall always be
here. I shall always be here. That is real Love for
you, and don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
Then she began to speak in a different language.
Her lover was fast asleep in the bed, too far gone
to move. He had been sick on the pillow and was
drawing some very unsettling snores but as always
she was in her own space, not hearing.
She rested her head on the table and disappeared,
as usual.
I put on my coat, looked over them both and left
for school, or something like it.
When I came back, our house was gone.
Sometimes exactly what you want not to
happen happens anyway.
battle
Loving someone who hates
themselves
is a special kind of violence.
A fight inside the bones.
A war within the blood.
when it is but it ain’t
Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the
type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats
its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly
in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes
back to your bed at four a.m. smelling like everything
outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex.
Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others
badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid,
love beastly, love sick, love anti light. Sometimes the
love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself,
cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly,
strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes
heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. Fucks around.
Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into
corners. Leaves them longing. Seasick. Says yes.
Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body.
Dances wild
and walks away, smiling.
skill
I am my own father
but that wasn’t always clear.
I had to learn my duties, fast.
It wasn’t easy.
I got some lines on my face
I got a battle with the booze.
I look prettier than I am,
but there’s a talent to that.
you don’t know the half of it
According to you,
people like me
shouldn’t go into places like this or
be around people like these
but you don’t know the half of it.
The brightest of stars, frankly,
are just a load of hot air and
diamonds, sadly,
were just formed from dust and rock
and the butterfly,
remember,
used to crawl on its belly
and tiny legs
through the dirt.
secret
It has been going on like this
for years. I provide the bed
and all of my body.
She provides the drink,
foots all of the bill.
community
They say women are gentler, treat
each other better.
Please.
As if we never learned to eroticize our rage,
to block out the screaming of the gut.
the not quite love
I haven’t been home in nearly two
weeks.
My new lover has a fridge full of beer
and can almost make jollof rice
also the sex is good
and we are falling into something we
will soon mistake for love
anyway,
“home” is a problem. There are the
bills and there
are the mice
plus
there is that feeling you get
when you catch up with yourself.
lesson
The difference between attraction
and compatibility
how it kicks you in the belly every
now and then.
artichokes
Until you have been the last ones
sitting in the café on the corner and
she has kissed the dark rum from the
rim of your glass and schooled you in
the art of eating artichokes
until then,
you are not yet woman.
Until you put soft leaf to lip
touch tongue to flesh,
bite the lobe,
swallow the juice
she says will purify you
until you open it up, sigh at the color,
see its very middle and learn what
fingers are best at
until you reach further still
into that thick, hot heart
life has not yet started.
Before you had been promised.
Before she is a liar.
Before you are dismantled, fixed and
broke again you are not yet a lover.
Remember on the right night and
under the right light
any idea can seem like a good one
and love
love is mostly ill-advised but always
brave.
The most important thing to do is
not to worry. The lines on your face
will never stop the sun from coming
up. Your tears cannot affect the
weather. There are wars going on.
The one in your body is the only one
you can be sure of losing
or winning, then losing again.
You drink more water than rum these
days, don’t you?
But you drink to her memory, don’t
you?
And you only take artichokes in salad.
Never whole.
Not in a café on a dusky street at
midnight.
Not with her.
Never with her, or anyone like her.
heat
I miss you in tiny earthquakes
in little underground explosions
my soil is a hot disaster
Home is burning.
You’re a lost thing.
relief
Thank Goodness I have nearly
unlearned
folding my desire into itself
being afraid to claim it.
the good work
I was raised pulling food
out of earth. I know where
joy comes from
and how to make it.
a test—things our bodies have been
A bargaining tool
Breakfast
Confused
Developed (over)
Expensive
Fun
Ghost
Health
Igloo . . .
(Joke.)
Kissed
Lover
Mine?
Not
Offering
Pricey
Quiet, queer
Reward
Supple.
Tempting.
Undone.
Very.
Weapon
XXX
Yours (or that’s what we told you)
.
Zest.
girls
Chinazo’s married boyfriend
wants all of her friends and it isn’t
as though she doesn’t know it.
Oh well, she says, men will always
want to play around. He likes you.
Thinks you’re sexy. How about it?
I say
it isn’t my thing. She
starts laying into me,
asking me who I think I am
how can I act so high and mighty
when everyone knows what I am.
Everyone knows it.
I see her fixed on nails/her brittle
life/her plastic hair/her stretched-out
love/her painted lips/her bleach-red
skin
and cry a little
all the way home.
sthandwa sami (my beloved, isiZulu)
In the early hours of this morning it
was far too hot for anyone to sleep.
You told me I was strange and kissed
me
sunk your teeth into my soft bottom
lip, twice. So hard I thought you drew blood.
I keep getting the feeling that if you
look at me for long enough
you may see that I have a thousand
fears
just like your mother who never really
wanted you to leave
meanwhile mina I am catching up on
the sleep that we missed
and waiting patiently to feel normal
again.
My thoughts about you are
frightening but precise.
I can see the house on the hill where
we grow our own vegetables out back
and drink warm wine out of jam jars
and sing songs in the kitchen until the
sun comes up
wena
you make me feel like myself
again. Myself before I had any solid
reasons to be anything else.
Last night you gave me space to
dream bigger than the single bed.
You laughed in your sleep and I cried
in mine
and this afternoon we might be tired
because the sun is fierce today
and so much happened between
midnight and now
but Bhabha you are terror and
brilliance
so
I am the kind of woman who is
already teaching my body to miss
yours
without craving.
I am the type of woman who is
already teaching my heart to miss
yours
without failing
and I am quite sure that you will find
this unnecessary
but I am already searching for a place
to run to and hide when you say,
Uthando lwami. I’m ready. Are you?
You know that I would gladly drive
with you to the other side of the
world with only the clothes I am
wearing
and the loose change
and empty peanut shells in my purse
kodwa
every time you leave the room I
worry
and think that perhaps I have
imagined you
and maybe you have imagined me.
she puts cinnamon on tomatoes
You knew you liked her when
she was talking about her life one day
and in the street the drunk women
were fighting
and the young men were playing
house music
and there were Muslims praying
amidst all this
and the taxis were honking their
horns all around her in a circle of
chaos
so she went back inside in all her
calm
and where the two of you are now, in
a different town
and different time, there are dogs
barking outside
and you love the way
her name feels behind your mouth.
She puts cinnamon on tomatoes
white pepper on carrots
mustard seeds on unlikely things
and takes wine and ice with breakfast.
She sits awake at night
and dreams with open eyes
so you are not afraid to tell her
every time you want to run.
There was a time when fingers on
white walls made you nervous
a time when you didn’t pray so much
a time when you worried about what
the men in the street had to say
a time when you weren’t yourself
they tell you you’re an abomination to God
how so? You speak to God more
often now
than ever before.
She sketches jellyfish
and planets
smokes a broken white pipe
and you feel like an instrument
that she’s had for years.
You pool pennies together
for dinner, most nights
but you’re happy.
You are. You’re happy.
I’ll admit it, I’m drawn to the wolves
I like the lines you use on me
they crackle a little, like magic.
I cannot pull my mind off you
even though
I do not trust your hands.
there will always be your heart
Do not shout for silence
do not shout too loud
there will always be birds outside a closed
window
a car door shutting in the next street
fine raindrops,
whispers
footsteps in puddles
some couple somewhere
having an argument
he’s telling her to shut up
she’s crying
threatening to leave
he’s saying he doesn’t give a fuck.
Do not shout for silence
do not shout too loud
there will always be
loose change spilled on a pavement
a plastic bag dancing somewhere in the wind,
a tree stretching when it thinks no one is there.
There will always be everything that you
mean but do not say
when I ask you what I’ve done to make
you so angry
and the look you give me when I’ve
said too much in front of our friends.
Do not go too far for peace and quiet
do not run too far
because the country can be as loud as the city
too noisy in its stillness
and anyway,
there will always be your breath
which, hard as you try,
you can’t do without
you can’t run away from.
There will always be your heart
beating
stronger and louder
the harder, the further
you run.
legacy
Being married was hard on my throat,
said he.
Being held
was tight round my neck.
Look, I still bear the marks,
; said he.
Listen, I still can’t breathe.
I’ve been owned for centuries,
said he.
It is love. But I will not stay.
My father
was a long dark fairy tale too.
It is and
it will be that way.
it is what it is
I saw Dad for the last time one hour
and forty-seven minutes ago, when I
took one final look at the body in the
open casket. His complexion was
dull. It looked just like him. Grayed
hair, broad nose, black lips.
His expression solemn, as it was in
life. He never smiled at us.
The church deaconess was in my ear,
going on and on about how good he
always looked in a trilby, asking what
would become of his collection,
especially the navy one with the pink
felt ribbon. I promised to be sure to
contact her and agreed that the
church was a great place for charity to
begin. She wanted to know what I
was going to do with his good winter
coat and green cashmere sweater.
Mentioned that her son and my
father probably wore the same size.
Mrs. Harrison has always been
tactless. Ever since I was little she has
gotten away with it because she is one
of the elder members of the church.
When Lemar Campbell died of a
brain tumor, Mrs. Harrison asked Lemar’s
mother right at the graveside
for his walking stick. Just as they were
singing “Shall We Gather at the River”
and sprinkling the first shovel of dry
earth onto the casket. It had been a
beautiful, very ornate walking stick
with a gold handle and tip, but still.
I am tired all the time lately, but am not
sleeping. When I do, I have
strange dreams in which neither of
my parents are dead and they are
both shouting over each other,
pleading with me, trying to make