Mxolisi Nyezwa
don’t ask me about any of my poems
for i will tell you that people are murdered in my country
and their deaths arrive slowly as an illness
as a desolate knock
on a blank sky
I wear my shoes in the morning like i’m in a hurry for something
the tea-cup rests on the table, its shadow long and tapering
everywhere the fruit gives golden or red sulphur
what has become of us?
what has become of us?
Featured on 19 August 2021
Comments