nor sourced in cellular imaginings,
remembered as soul food consumed
by ancestors, there is a way of holding
to the edge; of standing, observant and
not immersed, watching the oceans of
mind, roll and turn in waves of new
understanding, and becoming; always
apart, never able to enter into the
river of life in the same way as those
who have suckled at the teat of Africa,
those who have wiped dust from hot
brows, slapped at deadly mosquitoes
in the night, licked clean the plastic
bowls, of the last, drying crusts of
pale,
inadequate, but desperately devoured
maize; drawn in flimsy buckets, dusty
water, to slake deep thirst; stacked in
neat and ordered collation, dry sticks
for the fire, dipped wet hands in mud
to caress bricks into life, birthing the
hut which will hold off the worst of
the drenching, thundering rains in
the Wet season; crept through dead,
crunching cornfields, to capture small
confused mice, which can be threaded
on sticks, stewed, roasted or grilled, to
be sold by the side of the road, or eaten
as a treat, and a respite from the boiled
greens and glutinous Nsima which
holds off death, even if it does not give
Life, in those ways which so many others
take for granted, those who can only ever
stand and watch, never truly knowing
the depth and breadth of this being;
never touching the heart of darkness.
Roslyn Ross
