Sometimes in April When the rain pours And makes mud of the earth. I think of Brenda Fassie’s “Too Late For Mama” Lingering on my sister’s vibrato An attempt to forget that, Once again, A family member had lent us their back. My three sisters and I huddled, Under the night sky, Singing. A mild prayer to keep us from shivering. A ‘let us find the mercy of a couch” But it rained hard. We used our limbs as umbrellas. Laughed loud and sloppily To hide our shame
Sometimes in April. I think about the wet ground How it felt against our feet. How poverty turned into homeless. Into needy. Into “don’t cry, we’ll be okay soon” Into my mother being a beggar And us, just open mouths. Wrestling with the pitiless relatives Who call us out of our shared last names.
Sometimes I think Haven’t we lost enough Haven’t we known an empty hand Haven’t we despaired enough. No shelter to speak of Just a song to keep us warm And the rain does not care. (Neither do the people) It comes. In April.