Category: Poetry

Rosalin wakes up early in the morning. She rises at the rooster’s second crow, Or at the muezzin’s first call to prayer, if you may, To make tea for her husband And porridge for her youngling. To milk, to wash, to sweep. Her husband, Wesili, Wakes just after sunrise, Red-eyed, musty-breathed. He asks, “Why is…

Along the busy, noisy streets.Of the big bad city!I met a thief –And wait: Before this encounter,I knew thieves,Carried grenades, pistols, machettes.But…Thieves, my child,They carry no weapons. Not tangible weapons –They wear a charming smile.Have boring eyesAre soft spoken And when they write, They write of things unfathomable.They write of death, of tragedy.So seldom do…

I’ve made up my mind,To keep mum no longer,About this rather handsome diamond ring,That hurts my finger. This ring, dear husband,Fit perfect on my finger,When you would come home early,With chocolate boxes and bottles of wine,With fresh roses on Valentine’s Day,Those days, dear husband,When you paid attention,When we melted in each other’s embrace for hours,When…