SponsoredLinda Masilela
Every morning Majita a ko Sosha
Hold their breathe.
To see how much they’d last
If they drown.
Be as it may seem
The gymnastics to practice death,
Their lungs are filled with shrapnel.
Its lodged diffusely on the thorax
But prominent where hope frizzles into despair.
They don’t remove it
Lest they’ll be accused of suicide
Or rehearsing plays
That embellish death.
Or be stoned for sacrificing their bodies
Or be stoned trying to lift their bodies.
Their bodies are nothing but water
Death lights a flame underneath their skins.
And now they are empty
Like a bucket with evaporated water.
Waiting to be kicked
Waiting to be kicked.
By Linda Masilela
