The edge of our bed was a wide grid
where your fifteen-year-old daughter was hanging
gut-sprung on police wheels
a cablegram nailed to the wood
next to a map of the Western Reserve
I could not return with you to bury the body
reconstruct your nightly cardboards
against the seeping Transvaal cold
I could not plant the other limpet mine
against a wall at the railroad station
nor carry either of your souls back from the river
so I bought you a ticket to Durban
on my American Express
and we lay together
in the first light of a new season.

Now clearing roughage from my autumn garden
cow sorrel    overgrown rocket gone to seed
I reach for the taste of today
the New York Times finally mentions your country
a half-page story
of the first white south african killed in the "unrest"
Not of Black children massacred at Sebokeng
six-year-olds imprisoned for threatening the state
not of Thabo Sibeko, first grader, in his own blood
on his grandmother's parlor floor
Joyce, nine, trying to crawl to him
******* through her navel
not of a three-week-old infant, nameless
lost under the burned beds of Tembisa
my hand comes down like a brown vise over the marigolds
reckless through despair
we were two Black women touching our flame
and we left our dead behind us
I hovered    you rose    the last ritual of healing
"It is spring," you whispered
"I sold the ticket for guns and sulfa
I leave for home tomorrow"
and wherever I touch you
I lick cold from my fingers
taste rage
like salt from the lips of a woman
who has killed too often to forget
and carries each death in her eyes
your mouth a parting orchid
"Someday you will come to my country
and we will fight side by side?"

Keys jingle in the door ajar    threatening
whatever is coming belongs here
I reach for your sweetness
but silence explodes like a pregnant belly
into my face
a ***** of nevers.

Mmanthatisi turns away from the cloth
her daughters-in-law are dyeing
the baby drools milk from her breast
she hands him half-asleep to his sister
dresses again for war
knowing the men will follow.
In the intricate Maseru twilights
quick    sad    vital
she maps the next day's battle
dreams of Durban    sometimes
visions the deep wry song of beach pebbles
running after the sea.

I dream of a life living in hell. It's insane I know, but I love picturing myself in bruises and more scars than I already have. I fantasize of someone kicking me in the face, mutilating myself and drugging every last inch of my brain with more memories that can stimulate my being traumatized. Everyone dreams of a happy, non-problematic life, truth be told I do too, but there are just moments were I picture a person smothered in pity and suicide.
I take hours driving into nowhere. I leave at dawn or in the middle of the night and have long conversations with a lover who craves for lust as much as I do. But it will always be her or maybe him and I. Just the two of us, driving towards utopia but mistaking the roads and ending up in an opposite world.
I dream of having *** that will make me feel alive. On the road, in the middle of nowhere, abandoned houses, motels, bathroom stalls and bedrooms that smell of old newspapers and cardboards. My partner scratching me as I bleed. I dream of a him and a her, a ****** up version of me, filled with tattoos and scars, who drown themselves in ***** and cigarettes, and someone who thinks just as I do. They choke me with words, and penetrations. Maybe fingers and wet lips. I always give in, and they are always in control.
I dream of crying on their necks or shoulders, releasing my anger and all the heat into their kisses and lust. I dream of him or her, finding me, a little too late, in a bathtub filled with a lifeless and breathless body. And they will mourn over me and join me later on, on the journey.

It's sick of me, for someone to think this way, maybe I'm just too ****** up, maybe I need help, but I guess these are my horrible fantasies, of a tragic life I crave for. A world where no one cares and thinks about me except maybe for that person. A world where I dream of killing myself and breathing in drugs to help me forget about the perfect life I am in.

But that world does not exist. I live in this one where I am me. I have scars, I smoke, I eat, I breathe, I talk, I laugh, I'm happy and alive. That world is just another one of my desires and fantasies. Another definition of the word "living"

n.j.

cant shake a feeling, im reeling
like straw slurping and ice cream brain freezes
sweet and lovely but unrelieving
that face on you, unpleased and making me queasy
ill take that spark, light my cigarette and try to forget
with whats left, it wont be easy

my stomach coils, will this ever be ending?
smoggy chemicals and glue between us peeling
pulling back my skin from bone
so will you be home? im mailing you my pieces but signatures needed

and sure enough, i got it back- i drank it way too fast
like two puzzles, exactly the same but painted differently
cardboards not to last, the best things are made of glass
shattered by high frequency, shards cut losses
for now its just a rash, this too will pass

A grey sky, a little rain and long way home
Only a shirt, the faster I walk the colder I get
A flash of lights , a brighter smile, a hand out too hold
Its about to get worse, aren't you glad that we met

A quick drive, with quick talk as the sky outside weeps
A reverse park, an open door and a green welcome mat
A warm room ,the smell of food, says please take a seat
You must be hungry too , aren't you glad that we met

Soaked shoes off,  nice cup in my hand and  we are talking
Feeling happy, a little tired, on the table my cup is set
Are you strong,yes I say, let me see, shirt off I'm shaking
I like a good strong boy, aren't you glad that we met

A short walk, a new room a nice bed and I am sleepy
Bed is blue, cardboards white, walks around me like a cat
Says pants are wet take them off , says my shy is silly
Take a nap don't be scared aren't you glad that we met

Lightning flashes, thunder booms, an man and a child
Both in a bed, a hand on my cheek, says not to cry or be upset
A little sound, a lot of pain, that drink has made me mild
Now inside you are warm too, aren't you glad that we met

In the attic of my childhood home lives a box labelled pandora
Its worn out cardboards sealed with tape
And the dust forms a bad aura
For eight whole years it’s lay untouched
Only poked at from a distance
It’s grimy contents full of hate
Yet the reason for my existence

I had a feeling
We should be together
You're curious
But I cannot show my face
I am stranger here too

It has been 3 years
Since we've been as poor
As the rich and greedy
In this place too
I keep your dreams safe

We are astronauts
Who will make it to space
If Earth becomes empty
Or I can't touch your skin
Anymore

Men covered in cardboards
Cars that have fog lights
Burning most of the fuel
Left for the world
May be how we share disease

Before your feet turn cold
We can make love
As long as we don't cough
And grow old together
Or have a Corona during sobriety