Poems by Wandile Ganya

Will of the slaves

The city
trembles.

Dust
rises,

curtains
flutter;

a tempest
breaks.

 

 

Ileus

Pathologists had probed his blood,
saying it was probably an “electrolyte” imbalance,
and the surgeons had opened up his guts
suggesting it was “a perforation” or “an obstruction”,
or “a tumour” or something.

On the operating table
he lay, still, naked and cold,
his viscera exposed –

with no apparent cause.

 

 

Digging

Perhaps,
if you’d dared

to trek
afield,

beyond the calm
semblance of day,

you’d hear
the angry toil

of the pen,
pike and spade,
digging.

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