tussen pers vygies

ek sit op 'n skilferende creosote bankie in Nature's Valley

die goue gedenkplaatjie op die rugkant lees:

Die Muller familie - 4 geslagte

soos my tone oopsprei tussen die pers vygies

sing ek 'n sagte lied

ter herinnering aan die Mullers

my oog korrel na 'n by wat holomhoog 

in 'n bos stuifmeeldrade skrop en suig 

en krap en beur en stoot 

ek gaan af op my knieë

- ek self holomhoog - 

om die aksie van naderby te bekyk

hoe langer ek kyk 

hoe meer blomme en bye merk ek op

bye wat verwoed mekaar uit blomkele stoot

groot korrels geel stuifmeel 

klou taai

aan spartelende beentjies

instinktiewe verpligting

vreugde

oorlewingswaansin?

wat dryf die bye tot hierdie 

onophoudelike soeke, versameling, korwe bou 

en die magiese heuningalchemie?

 - Lara Kirsten

THE WITNESSES

Throughout the wedding service,

from her seat in the third pew,

the groom’s grandmother held

the right hand of her husband, in part to prevent it

from exploring her thigh.

From behind the microphone, an uninspired

voice tried to breathe life

into stern advice for the newly-weds,

written by a fiery

first-century celibate.

Walking out afterwards

into the heat, the blinding glare of summer,

the grandmother’s eyes found the eyes

of a much-married man, drawn into himself

at the love-feast, unsure

if he himself could commit such a rash act

yet again. She winked at him, said:

“I do find things like these get easier

as you get older.”—meaning

marriage, meaning

the perilous leap into the arms

of another, requiring

some skill and much luck, but mostly

a love of broken things,

of imperfection. Then her own husband’s face

slowly softened and relaxed, and he began to feel

the earth beneath him again, crushed grass

under his feet in spite of his shoes;

and a slight breeze came out of nowhere

to ruffle his clothes; to lift his dampened spirits

again and again, as they all walked on emboldened

into the beautiful, wicked world.

 - Jacques Coetzee