Are we chicks with curves
who bounce in tight jeans,
curves cutting concrete corners,
chunky gold cracking our necks
and boiling the sun?

No. We clasp hope in our hands,
like rope
it slices our palms
we slurp the blood to redden our lips
which shimmer in the Joburg sun.

This anger -
hunger
took our fathers places
where fathers died young,
tied our mothers to places
where mothers grew old..
Copyright ©2016, Dimakatso A. Sedite, adapted in 2017