By Yvette Christiansë
There is a stain on the horizon.
It leaks into the world, covers
the linens, covers the faces
and turns this ocean, shuddering,
from its course. I speak
two tongues – one dressed
in syllables of government,
shielded by amen and hallelujah,
the other a ragged stumbling,
of this place, utterances
of silence and elation, wave breaks
and soil – I speak two tongues
and neither will suffice.
There is a stain on the horizon.
It covers the world, a curse
whose logic will not be exposed.
It has no knowledge of amen
or hallelujah. It soils the waters.
It breaks the gardens – and
these are my vines and these
the fruits of a labour I understand.
It turns the sun away and my lips
will not move beyond this approach
to its name. And, yes, there is no name
for what I see, but this foraging
for a new lexicon of horror.
I speak two tongues, one
squabbles between possession
and longing, one occupies the lower
ranges of confidence and goes in search
of leaves shaken by the wind,
the warmth of a simple flame.
Daily, in the way days go –
neophyte glad in the language of water,
of grains of salt blown up from the ocean –
I grow away from one tongue
and into the other, though neither
will save me now, or the world.
Imprendehora, Kwela/Snail Press, 2007: 66-67
