A fine beast

When face-to-face we met the first time
in the backyard where mother used to work,
scrubbing your panties, I placed my other hand
on your waist, this one on your breast, felt you
fighting not to say from the bottom of your throat
as we kissed, Ek is lief vir jou, kaffir!

The zebra is a fine beast. And this is not for
nor against the moon which is really a stone
of significance to no one. I was talking about
the folly that governs hearts of men, the sun
being this clever pet that has learned to undo
doors, that has left its cage to perch a morning

on your shoulder. This is not about sex. God
knows I've desired you for more than tits, more
than the way you just lose it in broad daylight
when I touch them and you call me names but still
open like a sugar-bush in flames, O dawning.

The bonfire

They crossed all lands to reach us, to surround
with us the fagots and steeples, laughter
like relief telling who among our folk had
sent them to find our souls. The short one, who
talks little, knew something about what drives
men here, why a king might decree such a
thing out of fear. I stood to stretch my legs,
broke roots off the liana sagging from
the ceiling, threw them to the hiss of the
sizzling stem, and talked about the weather,
the snow that had surprised everyone and
covered cavern, lair — just talked, until I
found in mural dye your face, the fire
of sunrise in my cells, root-sent, secure.

Beginning a poem

When clouds form and glower at the coast
now boarded-up for the season, and the beast
wind howls at the cliff, it makes little sense
to want to sit and chronicle the sand's
despair, the fuming ocean (no matter
how rain hits thatch, or how the Almighty
sends every droplet down, no matter why
fog sneaks around the environs of my
lover's estate, why the African sun
has put love in her breast) memory soon
rushes in and has me sitting before
this Remington, with its keys that are flawed
or faded, and has me wanting to type
with abandon, with no specific hope.

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