Sunday, February 22, 2015

Malawi

In those places not born of experience,

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.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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