Shadows
There’s no possibility of forgetting
No promise of ever fading or being swallowed whole
We are floating in ruins
Echoes of our innocence
Still holding tightly to our toes
Like us, fearing the unknown
Perfect ways to mourn are shams to our kind
An intangible inheritance
A collecting of despair
This could be what it means to be of substance
To be still and having listened
How it feels to be without
There is no possibility of forgetting
This is a collecting of despair
What it means to be of substance
We have created body maps with dead moths
Cracked open earth’s core, applied all her oils to a million knees
And cursed her for no longer holding us
There is no perfect way to mourn
Even our tongues are unable to hold our truths
Sometimes.
– Phelisa Sikwata
