Tuesday, 12 June 2007

Ampersands & Pretzels by Rethabile Masilo

When it's over, when the lover's poems fail,
passion slips under and drowns.

—or is it helped down?

In a casket made by a missionary long ago
I sent all verse beneath the loch,
I banished it there,
saw it slip under and drown,
built a fig-leaf bonfire on my return,
piled chronicles on it, danced nude
beside the pyre.

I long for days of
long physical exertion, arms reaching out
to ampersand the legs, to bare yearning
down the middle.

I like it when you as pretzel master,
let me knot you to my mood, saying,
swivel me! I un-bun my hair
to eat you of course without silverware.

Rethabile Masilo, France

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