I Want What Comes After

I want what comes after:

the first lifted bucket’s clang

once the rooster’s all crowed out,

a keen thirst for fresh water

as sequel to that sound

your smell drying on my skin,

your fingers brushing briefly

against my stomach as you stir

awake from dozing: or, when

you’ve gone, an empty shape

left sprawled asleep within

the blankets on my bed.

I want what comes after:

the miraculous vigil of a moth

unburnt beside us in the sheets;

toast starting to brown, the nails

of a scabby cat across the floor,

conclaves of birds upon the eaves

the rustle of trees as they begin

to post their letters to the wind –

wind that’s strong enough to blow

off a roof of morning mist, a sky

like a field that begs a plough

emerging. And the two of us

looking outside to find the dawn

to which we’ll trust our bodies.

Kelwyn Sole is professor of English literature at the University of Cape Town and guest-editor for Issue 04.

Photo by Zane Selvan, from Flickr Creative Commons