By Tshepo Jamillah Moyo
You are sunshine yellow. The lightness in the air.
The little bit of scent the breeze carries in spring.
You’re the skirts that bellow. The glowing skin.
The dreadlock that does what it wants.
You’re the way the sky is pink and purple and orange and blue;
all at the same time. You’re the stillness of the river.
You’re also the waves of the sea. Both in their lapping and their thrashing.
You’re that thin line between the sky and the earth on the horizon.
You’re the extra chocolate in a cup of hot chocolate.
The kick in a whiskey. The bitters in an old fashion.
You’re the freshness in a coffee.
You’re the rose that isn’t quite blooming. But isn’t quite closed.
The peculiar miracle. The home of many.
The strength of the ant and the memory of the elephant.
The painters mistake; Thrown away project; Half finished; Half discarded.
The stumble. The stutter. The harmony. The hymn.
That page at the end of the book that no one prints anything on but puts in the book anyway.
You are the misplaced comma. The missing tooth. The wisdom tooth that took too long.
You’re the discomfort. The worn out. The smell of home.
The smudged writing of a left hander with a gel pen.
The proportioned type writer.
The numbing lulling breathing of a sleeping lover.
First breath of a baby.
You are screeching tyres. Wailing mothers. Preaching pastor.
The bass. The bass. The bass. A saxophone. You are music.
The choooo choooo in Hugh Masekela’s Stimela.
You are the green of the moss. Rich and deep.
The gold of the gold fish, bright and orange.
You are the blade. Sharp and smooth.
The crack in a side walk. Jagged and broken.
You are the purple of a bruised thigh.
The lack of memory. A flickering candle.
An unread book. You are the dust glistening in sunlight.
You are the bookmark folds.
The names hard to pronounce.
You are a tongue twister.
Heavy. Heavy. Heavy.