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