You fitted so snugly
through the window I opened wide for you.
Then you shut it with a bang giving me your back.
The shards, too small, took forever to gather.
I put them in that wooden bowl you made.
Then I bought shatter-proof glass,
lined it with black blinds that do not open,
so that I will never be tempted
to open the window again.
Makhosazana Xaba is the author of These Hands and Tongues of Their Mothers.
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JILL PEARLMAN
One of us sleeping, one of us dreaming with open eyes / strands of your hair in the silver light / when I rubbed the hair in the small of your back, / you awoke to a dog’s sharp nails / You told me it wouldn’t have ended well / in the old country. // You smashing public windows, drunken brawls / in the metro
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AIMEE NEZHUKUMATATHIL
Sometimes when they were young, I felt like / I was underwater and couldn’t make out sounds / or reason or rhyme, only coral clicks and distant / whale songs. A shiver of eel near my ankle. But /
trust me: one day you’ll surface. They start / walking, then running, and then they sit behind / a wheel.
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