29 December 2018

Book makers, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

One day while we were outside, playing,
Khotsofalang left, and no matter how we prayed
he was killed and reincarnated as a tree;
we need to know if that is what he wanted to be.

They made a casket with his pith,
because Lesotho traffics in the business of coffins.
Some wonder why we don’t make doors out of loss, instead,
using planks and slats from the bodies of the dead.

Still others say books, by beating cadavers to a pulp, like pulled
pork, flattening the remains in the sun for them to dry, till
some of them finally come of age
and accept a dirge on every single page.



Our home in Qoaling

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