Kerry Hammerton
They wait for a blackened moon
then sidle in –
infecting dreams with love
and lust, and flight.
I say prayers
but they come back
grimfaced, sharpening
halberds and swords
on stolen grindstones.
Their muddy boots mar
the kitchen floor; their bloodgutted kill
stinks in pots on the stove.
To keep me honeyed
they chant mellifluously
as if they were still in heaven.
Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow in-person launch of The Only Magic We Know: Selected Modjaji Poems 2004-2020 on 1 March 2022
Comments