The garden boy
has a beautiful floral garden
in his house, he spends at least two hours
on it before the sunrise
and after the sunset to cultivate
the soil and irrigate his plants and so forth
During the day he ambles around the
garden admiring his blossoms, pulling out
weeds and spraying insects away.
His old friends call him “the garden boy”.
Yesterday we went to visit
my grandmother’s grave. I for the first time
saw her name on the tombstone:
Mapalesa Rose Yatlholeho
and it all came together
We did not have enough space
for Christmas trees in our home
The only empty spaces that we had
were our moaning stomachs, and brains
starving for knowledge.
We were nothing else but young faces
wearing dusty veils made of thousand smiles
BY ABIGAIL GEORGE
(for my sister)
The day has
a mothlike quality to it. I make a cup of tea (always for one). Boil the
water in the
microwave oven while
make way for new poems. Once, I lived in grassroots country. Rural
(Boarding school). Slowly
my flesh is emptying out. Winter making way for spring’s milky sweetness,
summer’s pleasure and
waves of heat, autumn’s gift.
Slowly, I climb back
into their world. Standing in the sun sipping my cup of tea for one.
I sit and watch the
afternoon warming the page in front of me.
BY CRAIG O’FLAHERTY
The dust road ahead
cuts dead straight
through the stony
as if someone’s drawn it
To one side I see a
a small lit plaas window
winking in the darkness,
emboldened by the whistle
of a burnt kettle
sitting on its blue
ring of fire,
calling out into
the starlit cold.
BY CECILY CAMARA
I float through my kind of house
late at night.
I eat exotic foods
which does nothing for my cholesterol.
I travel to places of interest to me
where I meet a stinking rich, very
old man who gives me the time of my life.
In return I promise to spoil him to death.
That’s without even getting out of bed.