by Sarah Lubala
A Leaving Song
— in memory of my great grandmother
say the cows are dying in the fields
say there is no meat this summer
say she is sold to an old chief
say her thighs sing blood and water
say she buries two babies
say two bundles wrapped in
white muslin
say the shroud is caught
in the thorn bush
say none but God can mend the tear
say she remembers her own mother
say she recalls her bird-bone hands
say they dug in wild hunger
say the earth never did yield
say there are rows of wild mangos
say she moves hands and knees
between them
say the night becomes a poem
say nothing scares her anymore
A Burial Hymm
I
Bring the bitter leaf
the wild spinach
the kola nuts
I am gathering from scratch
telling the stone house
the thatch roof
the gun too large
for hands so small
the months of rice and
honey
II
Oh Lord
that I belonged
to any land but this
that I could not read
the currents
that the dirt roads knew nothing
of me
In these lines
I have tried to forget the words
by which we are known
III
I am told my poems
hold too much water
are charged with too much
weeping
I know nothing else
honeyed water for the mouth
lemon water for the throat
saltwater for the wounds
history is the dog at my back
hard by the heels
the profane stain of red earth
along the hem of every skirt
IV
The night my grandfather died
I stood in a long line at Home Affairs
awaiting a new name
forgive me
The Women
— for Karabo Mokoena and the other Lost Women
There is never enough water
only the memory of it
only the burning wood
only the soft scuttle of mice
trapped in the roof
we are tired
of the men
in cars
in markets
in line at the post office
An ode to soap
here is
the breath
of paper wrapping
the soft rustle
of prayer
for the swelling
in the knees
for two small bruises
on the breast
for the air at first light
hungry and roaming
here is
the first clean bite
of mint
quince pear on the windowsill
the slow aria of vanilla
the notes so open
you could weave
the sweetness
in
here is
the white porcelain bowl
the daydream of water
skin the colour
of baked nectarines
in the bleached sea light
here is
the wet grass
the heaven
and the earth
the bright throat
of spring
yawning across
the sky
What to Say to the Immigration Officer When He Ask You Where You Are From
Say you left in a hurry
say the days stumbled
blind
say the high grasses
swallowed the raw-boned women
feeding babies
in the field
Say you were
twenty-two in all
say half were lost in
the first week
say you prayed to
die young
say you lived on
and on
Say the belly of the dry
season
say the lash of the earth
say you swallowed
whole countries
say you spit only ash
An Inheritance
I don’t remember how it began
with water or without?
with trembling or without?
satisfied or fainting?
How might we measure it?
the dregs of a season
one white confetti bush
the salt on your hands
an armchair
honeyed in winter light
Did we sigh for the ease of it?
Did we think ourselves free?
As though our mothers are not ghosts
As though this language is not
a haunting
There is a power in calling a thing by its proper name
Not ‘infidelity’
Let us say
a history of disappearance
Let us say
men forget their names
Not ‘a Black man hits his
Black wife’
Let us say
she is alone in a room
Let us say
she is a rose in bloom
What of your names?
he who came by water
and blood
bright edge of the knife
worn-knot of breath
bees in the throat
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