Crossing from Solitude

More old poetry. Here’s one that may speak to World AIDS Day.

Crossing from solitude

The meagre sun outside I know
climbs the height of Cape Town’s
odd, blue, winter sky. Inside,
we sit or lie in the fast

cooling bath, refill it again,
again, it cools again. We talk
shit, laugh, or worry, declare,
confess, tell stories. Then

we’ll mob each other
like the crazed lovers we are
uncontained
and certain as our bodies

seek their single truths, caring
not for anything but to cross
that silent, undeclared,
still solitude we cross now, again;

caring not for anything
but my leg in its space between
your legs; your hand on me
as if it’s my hand on me

or your hand on yourself.

Later, you’ll leave for a rally.
June, 16. A new fight
as our country falls still,
again, to plague and old men

muddled and muzzled by an old
God who clearly couldn’t care
he gave us cocks and cunts,
arseholes, the language of the fuck,

and the body’s craze for assonance;
a country still in awe
of aged young lions whose deaths
give the lie to their own lies.

Your politics an ache, an anger
that two days ago unfurled
in my bathroom, and raged
against silence, against inaction –

then you apologetic as if I did not care
nor harboured aches or anger;
me, caught still in a cooling bath.
I will dawdle, then also leave

to a stack of papers, bills,
laundry, the changing politics
of my everyday that now
must struggle against your

absence, yours. A bath that cools
for no one, an odd blue sky,
the sun that falls now
towards evening, towards winter

as our confessions deepen,
declarations that circle and skirt
the unsaid of how else
humans might cross from solitude.

(from This Carting Life, © Kwela/Snailpress, 2005; first published in Nobody ever said AIDS, eds. Nobantu Rasebotsa, Meg Sameulson and Kylie Thomas, Kwela Books, 2004)

Crossing from solitude
The meagre sun outside I know
climbs the height of Cape Town’s
odd, blue, winter sky. Inside,
we sit or lie in the fast
cooling bath, refill it again,
again, it cools again. We talk
shit, laugh, or worry, declare,
confess, tell stories. Then
we’ll mob each other
like the crazed lovers we are
uncontained
and certain as our bodies
seek their single truths, caring
not for anything but to cross
that silent, undeclared,
still solitude we cross now, again;
caring not for anything
but my leg in its space between
your legs; your hand on me
as if it’s my hand on me
or your hand on yourself.
Later, you’ll leave for a rally.
June, 16. A new fight
as our country falls still,
again, to plague and old men
muddled and muzzled by an old
God who clearly couldn’t care
he gave us cocks and cunts,
arseholes, the language of the fuck,
102
and the body’s craze for assonance;
a country still in awe
of aged young lions whose deaths
give the lie to their own lies.
Your politics an ache, an anger
that two days ago unfurled
in my bathroom, and raged
against silence, against inaction –
then you apologetic as if I did not care
nor harboured aches or anger;
me, caught still in a cooling bath.
I will dawdle, then also leave
to a stack of papers, bills,
laundry, the changing politics
of my everyday that now
must struggle against your
absence, yours. A bath that cools
for no one, an odd blue sky,
the sun that falls now
towards evening, towards winter
as our confessions deepen,
declarations that circle and skirt
the unsaid of how else
humans might cross from solitude.

One Response to Crossing from Solitude

  1. […] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Ingrid Bester, Rustum Kozain. Rustum Kozain said: Crossing from solitude, a poem (World Aids Day) http://is.gd/i1WWq […]

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