10 October 2019

I'm sitting with a sun my heart is heavy with, by Rethabile Masilo

hoping that when the rooster comes off the rafters
of others, to face itself, like a child off a parent’s shoulders—
though I may not be alive to see it,
and there is a sacred glow along the lip of the horizon—
its head will go back into its mother’s womb.

Then the bear will shift in the woods, and black
and white will revert to being brown and beige.

It will be during the days of our children, a time
when the children of friends make the progeny of the children
of enemies, huddled in groups of salvaged souls.

The reasons to scalp are as many as Sitting Bulls
in tombs beneath ancestral lands, as many as black people
stabbed in the back with a bullet, as numerous
as the flames of open-mouthed Vietnamese fleeing
down a road. Loud as the noise of two nuclear booms.

The number of times a moon has sailed
over the lands of Kurds is incalculable and makes this
a fight to the finish, matched only by the total grains of sand
lying on beaches in Normandy.

Let this be a beef, of constructive engagement,
with policies on apartheid, fear garlanded with itself,
a mass grave of the number of times peoples
have been invaded, displaced, their numbers divided.
May the quotient of that suffering be your beef.

Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse

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