By KELWYN SOLE
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
