North End Station
I am used to the unyielding darkness
of blown out lightbulbs
and the lethal sway of the lamppost
but the bathroom locked with handcuffs
is a new event
in our little crumbling station
it makes me pause
and examine
and finally laugh in frustration
I make my way back to the ticket counter
and inform the cashier of my discovery
and she calmly looks at me and declares
“I do not have the keys for the handcuffs”
and continues to print tickets
as if that answer enough.
- Olwethu Mxoli
Afternoon lagoon
A pair of canoes, their oars
like big whiskers, feeling
their way forward.
Children throw sand
and laughter
at each other, their bodies
into the water.
You hurl your line
again and again –
watch the scarlet cork among the buoys,
and boats, the breath
of the seal, and the sea-grass.
Again I ask God, as the tide slides in –
these liquid blues of feeling,
please teach me how
to abide, to endure the love
of beauty: so much more painful
than loss?
White wings of far-off gulls
wink
in the light, and the ocean beyond
washes the hour
that does not pass.
– Silke Heiss, 7th June 2020
The girls
I want to write about the girl playing ‘kiss love’
in the soft smoke of sunset.
The skipping rope hits the asphalt
and echoes her heart’s giggle
when she rips open her love letter
and recites it to the rope’s meter.
I want to write about the girl
in her low riding jeans
laughing in the passenger seat of her boyfriend’s inherited Citi Golf.
The girl listening to the cd he spent hours burning just for this moment
when she looks at him
his face glowing from the gleam of the windshield
and she burns for him
I want to write about the girl
when she wore perfume and stilettos
danced until her feet went numb
and sweat washed away the floral notes
leaving her scent stamped on her dress.
I want to write about who she was when she was just a bud
waiting to bloom into something plump with life
juicy with laughter, dripping down the chin of a lover
in the endless summer sun.
I want to write about the girls
before they touched the ground, ripped open
and lived the rest of their lives as jam.
Something sweet spread across breakfast
but unidentifiable as them.
- Olwethu Mxoli
Sea-star
Gliding slowly through the shallows – a hand of fish: dark, rose-tipped fingertips, oh! Rows of terrible knuckles: tiny, transparent globes with golden spikes – illumined from within an armoury of beauty. – Silke Heiss, 17th July 2020
White horses A-rush through the tall grass, a-jolt upon the thick-leaf vygies, a-trot through wilde-als fragrance to the foamy, wide-armed blue – cantering towards you. – Silke Heiss, 7th June 2020
blank page
The page begs like a hungry man
it calls for even the faintest memory
a water colour hung in the middle of the brightest room
slowly decaying into transparency
it calls for the worst memory
the dirty one that clings to the nailbed
and stains everything you write
until you recoil from the mess of your own touch.
- Olwethu Mxoli
Missing Women
A woman was found
body burned beyond recognition
rotting in a closet
hanging from a tree
a woman was found dead
women are always found dead
their names fertilize social media feeds
and bloom into hashtags
every photograph is filtered with the ghost of her smile
the entire country sighs over how pretty she was
the girl who was going to be a lawyer
an accountant
a mother
no meal is complete without the retelling
her death replayed at dinner tables
across the country
the internet gorges on her
until it rips indignantly at the seams
spilling its ugly regret
into the street.
- Olwethu Mxoli
