21 October 2014

Sleep blues

As I was sitting here
the roof fell in, a cat
jumped out of me
and I found myself looking
at the world from outside me.
Midnight does this, too,
when emptiness
hangs from the sky. I stare
at a god whose headlamp
leans in to study me.
The far cry of misery comes
from another street
to tell me the health
of someone has found
death. I try to leap back
into my body before dawn.

18 October 2014

Manicure of the last day

Before going back to Europe tomorrow,
I must cut and file my father’s fingernails;
he sits on an armchair in front of the garage,
and closes his eyes as each nail jumps off,
my father who used to prune fruit trees
he had planted himself, between the kitchen
and the outhouse of our home in Qoaling,
the last village we lived in before we fled,
and learned to understand what the world was;
we had returned to Lesotho years later
and visited our old home to find closure.
Those trees still bore great fruit. After buffing
his hand-nails I remove his shoes, and kneel,
and prune the nails of his toes one by one.

17 October 2014

So

Is it standard
to have a slave
in a house
of iron, while
devils and gods
have the world
at their feet?

That, nigger, is
not your Niger,
you are where
they want you,
to do whatever
they can’t do.

The heathens
have achieved
their objective:
to have you
believe in their
personal Eden.

So flee, hide
under the legs
of mangrove
trees like when
you were a child
and they came
out of the sea.

Until it's safe
to stand up,
once the dogs
have lost track
of you at last.
Then you can
grow strong.

14 October 2014

L’origine du monde

1866. Who can't like the way Courbet painted women? Jo on the bed
with her head thrown back, as Gustave fiddles with brush and palette.
That is how it ought to be, for heaven told us to call the sun

when in trouble, call the wind, raise rivers off the floor. But
is this iron lung mine? My plastic heart? My face which can no longer
be stretched? Am I wearing plastic boobs or a rubber crotch?

High over mountains, above a hawk that stares with beady eye,
above the stratosphere and beyond, no distinct air can breathe.
The ozone layer has even fashioned a chimney to shoo shit out;

the world is its own prosthesis. Otherwise, breathe under an arm
the aromatics of life's smell—for Courbet's painting is on the wall
of my room, inside a frame carved from the bark of a tree.