All images by Rosie Olang
The New Romantics
No one forced you to stand in those queues.
You did it yourself.
You were brothers on those queues, you were sisters on those queues, and mothers, and fathers, sons and daughters.
You queued to vote.
There you were in the company of strangers with joy leaping out of your throat and wrapping itself around everybody. Your wide open mouth discharged flocks of twittering sunbirds ready to feast on the fragrant nectar of your laughter.
You forgot the lesson your mother taught you, never open your heart to strangers. Now see; these strangers are as familiar as family.
Two Poems
The Old Guitarist
(for N, at Pasara)
The narrow stairwell winds up in dim light
while pop culture, frozen in time, watches
or averts it gaze- smoking, dreaming:
Pulp Fiction, Boulevard of Broken Dreams,
Lady Day and them.
Kijitonyama
one never imagines to find their body
as part of the night revisions of a poet’s
imagination. yet here i am, living
next to an abandoned cemetery —
the cemeteries of Uswazi have their own lives
outside city council ideals — living outside
& inside the place you’ve come to call conditional.
ON AIRPORTS
ON AIRPORTS
I
Airports are for waiting
pacing, pouting, pissing, prowling &
falling off high-heeled shoes,
leading luggage astray.