Poems
Memoir Of A Scent
Obsession is the scent of your skin,
in how it captures and ripples my nipples.
It’s the harrowing of your claws
that eventually leaves them scarred.
It is YOU in the whims of the day that
furrows my insides into butterflies,
set free upon our breath.
The Photograph
In the photograph, you’re on the phone with a white woman, who’ll pay you a lot for a Black statement. Like many others, looking to find their dreams in your insinuated singularity, she’ll pay because she hopes to get laid.
She will follow the phone call with suggestive messages that will get her nowhere. She doesn’t know you’re smoke and mirrors, a contrived notion.
My pinks, yellows and greens reflect in your sunglasses. At first glance, you ooze charisma, but a closer look reveals a clenched fist and a creased brow.
The afternoon grows hotter. Much hotter than the season suggests, or my floral dress allows.
Undressed, I feel soft under your fingertips as you blur me out of the photograph. Once stripped of truth, you make it your profile picture, adding threads to the web that is an illusion of you.
The Nymph
He reached out to save her from the mist.
Her sobbing body dressed in gold,
glided out of the swamp unimpeded by life.
She flickered her naked skin against him with promises,
right up until the moment his heart felt pierced.
The surface broke around them only briefly.
Her hollow eyes promised rebirth,
cold tongue licking meekly.
She settled his last gasp with a kiss,
before closing the green moor's mossy curtains.
Crouched in silence,
she watched sad tears mix with blood.
They fluttered the stillness into frothy ripples,
until there was nothing left,
but falling leaves. Such was her nature.
Poem for Hania
Last night I dreamt I was on a train—
a train that cut through sunshine and a familiar town,
past a playground where I used to play,
near where my grandparents used to live.
It’s summer. The air is warm and still.
The train chases the sinking sun
as I draw a long breath,
tasting the smell of freshly cut grass.
When I look out the window,
I recognise the buildings—
the rusted swings, the trzepak we used to swing on,
the trees we used to climb,
the stone paths made for hopscotch,
the trampled soccer patch,
jumpers piled as goalposts.
Seeing it all fills my heart
with a piercing longing.
… and then I see you—
a young girl standing with a man and a woman,
walking slowly, chirping happily.
Your father has dark, short hair.
He looks peaceful, content.
Your mother carries a bucket—
maybe she’s just watered the garden beds, like we used to.
Her face is lovely, softened by age,
her long hair tied in a ponytail
falling well below her waist, just as I remember.
But instead of honey-gold, it’s grey now.
And you—you are pretty as always,
prancing on endless energy,
innocent and carefree, seized by wild ideas
you’ll make real along the way.
Determined, conscientious, positive—you.
Goodness radiates from your honey-gold hair,
long and thick, tied in a ponytail,
just like your mother’s.
Then I look closer, startled—
I realise the little girl is not you.
And the woman isn’t your mother.
And grief seizes my heart.
But then I see you …
you glance up at the passing train,
bucket dangling from your hand,
as if you’re always looking up at passing trains,
searching for your long-lost friend.
And I want to fling open the window and cry out to you,
but it’s too late. The train is going too fast.
Maybe one day the train will stop
and we’ll talk again.
And you will tell me about you—
about your family, and the pink dress you wore to your wedding,
and how you are content.
Because you were destined for happiness and peace,
with your unyielding optimism and hard work.
The glorious you—
now lost to me,
through time and distance.
Nevermind
Blood pounds in my veins,
tired, I lie awake for hours.
The morning light touches my face,
its cold hands waste my bones.
When brooding, darkness kidnaps all,
when happy, he’s a blinding ray of sunshine.
And now nothing but an echo reaching me
through the kaleidoscope of time.