I see greed and silver coating your tribal hands, fiercely.
Why is it then that my palm awkwardly covers the shame
and guilt on my face?
What is wrong with my face? What is right with your
hands?
What is this poverty of which we speak?
When your feet are flooded with the water we drink?
Who is this victim to whom we refer xa eyakhw’ inzalo ixukuxa
ngobisi?
Yintoni na isisele xa izidywili zimunguny' iqhosh’
elingenamngxunya?
Yinton’ iqhosha elingenamngxunya kwiintsana eziqhel’
ukuhlafun’ iimpukane?
Iyintoni yona inkolo kulowo ungenasono?
Take my damn hand, lead me on and bend me over.
The truth I hold will never unfold.
My wasted penis throbs at the sound of your
monologues.
I could cite excitement, but I’m in pain.
I could correctly rape newness to restoration.
But, what is to come then when I could never clean what I
could have in the shower?
Happy read!
