Tjizembua Tjikuzu

I sense you rise

in me—

your tongue inflamed,

reddened,

and bloated with speech.

I feel your shadow

at the margins of my dreams,

hovering over my body

like a farmer inspecting

the ripeness of his fruits.

You are a thief

at 3:00 a.m. stumbling over

the fence

of my dream world

as if burdened

by a sack of secrets.

When you crawl

past the fence, your back

is a formidable wall

against my song.

You refuse to look

at my face—

Will your tongue explode?

Will our dream burn

to smithereens if you speak?

When you unmask,

your eyes

are always on the floor,

swathed in shadows

like a wounded cat.

But tonight, I have left

all the lights

of my dream world on:

I am dusting every square inch

of space and time;

I am shining a bright flash

light in your fermented silence;

I am rattling the walls

of my dreams

like a sangoma

beguiling the feline

and bird bones

to augur good fortune;

I have become a bat

hurtling through the night,

spinning the silvery strings

of echo into music.

June Bugs

In January we sail kites that feast

on the camel thorn bush breaking

in bloom outside our grandparents’ yard.

After sour milk and pap,

my brothers and I raid the bush:

yanking out dark-green June bugs with bold cream lines

bordering their exoskeleton shell; or leaf green

with white spots on their abdomen; or dull brown

with broad shells and strong joints; or rare light brown

with tiny black spots from thorax to elytra.

We find them grinding the bush’s branches,

bleeding out the stems with their diligent mandibles.

We pluck one each from the nest,

clasp it in our small hands, the serrations

on their legs grazing against our sweaty palms

as they lumber to crawl out—

their tiny compound eyes and antennae

cowering under the soft taut flesh of palm.

Using our grandmother’s knitting thread, snatched

from her 1936 Singer Sewing Machine,

we take the long thread at its end and make a knot

with a hole wide enough for a June bug’s hind leg,

then tie two or three knots,

tethering the kite, so it wouldn’t escape.

We like the bulky, dull brown

with strong joints best; their legs never separate

from their abdomen, even when we yank the line.

We fly them for hours—their wings

droning hard to reach the unreachable.

Giving them the thread, the false freedom,

then taking away the thread’s length again,

holding them at arm’s length,

to hear better, the music of their labor.

Our faces beam with delight:

eyes squinting to avoid the Kalahari sun,

nostrils flaring as we work the thread,

mouths curling in everlasting giggles

as if we are watching a funny puppet show.

At the end of playtime, we feed the dead

to chickens and sands, free those

that can still fly, and return the broken

legged, broken winged back to the nest

for more sugar and water—

our hands bug-shit-stained and loud with sap.

Wendeline

The Red purse.

Red worn-out leather

purse. Golden eagle dollar

in withered hands.

I cannot place your face

exactly.

Lady of toenails twisted like

the horns of a mountain goat;

I have your marks in me.

Your voice? All

gone now, muffled, like dry leaves

buried in the fatty flunk

of a sleeping puff adder.

In the chaotic mornings

of our kicks and wails,

your walking club is the sting

of a desert scorpion

on our clean-shaven heads.

Red purse

in brown weathered hands.

Your golden dollar feeds me.

Feeds me like bread.

More than bread.

Grandmother, red lady.

Red lady of warring bloods.

It is you I come for courage in the dark.

You lady of heavy winds and spirits.

You lady of fermented peas and hymns.

When the mountains close in,

I whisper your forbidden name

in the hungry wind:

Kauniva, Kauniva, Kauniva.

And the night parts in threes.