4 a.m. Streets under fog. Streetlights gone.
Except a few down the road
and the moon’s halo
easily obscured by a plume of breath
(After a photograph by Victor Dlamini)
There is that sea, deep sometimes
as the heart at dusk,
the shine on its face soon to fade.
There is that caravel drifting in
and all it brings: a load of good
and the bad unreckoned by the quartermaster.
from Longo Dongoa & the Pocket Crucified
We asked for social overhaul
Got a power-hall roll-CALL
& the world coming down to play ball
On the site of our umbilical burial
tick it off the life-wreck list
from the poem cycle Anatomy
The wrist, the right one,
is a wrench.
The wrist, not the left, is rust.
And God gave the man little wingless birds,
small as a shock,
to eat while He was away.
I only realised I was at risk
when my brother phoned to check if I was still alive—
It’s a cold, bleak day
which might explain why she says:
“This is my daughter Nuala,
who has come all the way from South Africa to visit me.”
My mother has a brief flirtation
with Mr. Otto, a rare male in Frail Care.
He has the look of a Slavic conductor
—sweeping, side-parted silver locks
offset his visible nappy line.
“Oh my God, I’m so pleased to see you,”
she says from her nest of blankets.
“I’ve been meaning to ask—
How is your father?
How is Paddy?”
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