We are free to swing, but simultaneously boxed in by blue screens …
“My habitats are people,” shares Joburg-based indie singer Moonga K. “People I have deep, meaningful friendships with. People and spaces where I don’t feel alone. People I’ve lodged in my heart and mind indefinitely.”
To this gulf of shimmer and night sweats
where the howler monkeys’ call
startled syphilis-stricken Columbus …
Continuing the haiku series with an exploration of the battleground that is ‘home’
the townsfolk are both wary and warm. they aren’t cat or dog people, but will tolerate the occasional retriever …
Continuing our haiku series with “hearth” a collection of poems about what it means to be home.
sliced onions fried with miris and sugar
spotted with chili seeds
creating fire within my tummy
the spicy seeni sambol wrapped in
soft crunchy appa remind
my taste buds that they are alive
Garlic, heavy salty bone broth, steaming pasta-like galnish and tender lamb: the way to any Chechen’s heart. Nothing feels more like home than galnish heaped high onto plates, with thick broth served in earthy mugs on the side.
The bacon sizzles in a silver pot on a spiral top that burns
To a tangerine orange beneath sweet cabbage.
Turn that stove down low, boy!
where is it? the child
& below the skin…
this will not be your diaspora poem:
we have enough milk & honey
at the grocery store
and golden nubian gap-toothed queens who long for their mother
you try to pronounce each dish’s name
and it rolls off your tongue like a mango bruised, gone bad —
but your mother tongue is a sharp longing for sour tamarind soup.
Home is a collection of things
/ It is a hand-crafted alibi to prove
/ You danced, wore,
/ read, wrote, breathed…
your palm is a map, they said / drawn upon with lines / by a man above you, they said / your future is there …