12 April 2020

On the road to Emmaus, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

The rough, half-quarter days
of money’s ministry hound us,
and we seek the way out
of a stock market dead
in broken thermometres.

People run for the shelter
of homes built on the dome
of this one we inhabit
with dogs, cats, maggots,
halcyon days that flee us.

Jesus stands in the middle
of a church watching people
drip bleed silver onto plates.

We see a virus in a limousine
down the street near my house,
and see the city enter its walls;

because it's too late, already,
to get away from this wheeze.

I had let you dwell on my stoep.

One day a government, gloved,
moved you away, because your heap
in the corner was starting to rot,
fed by your cooking sores.

We stopped giving you soup.

Everyone swore there was yeast
bubbling between your legs.

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