A contemplation

by

Judith Miller

1.
Once you made me Turkish coffee
as we explored the wonder of life.
I engraved your initial on my thigh
in blue tattoo.
Afterwards you were childless
like me
and your twin sister.
Who will break the cycle?
I wonder.
We swam naked at
Nine Oaks;
only lofty trees looked on
our beauty.
Ah!
They said when you arrived
in Sydney
all your friends were there
to greet you -
a new diaspora.
Now I light a big fire
and sip a chilli soup
and remember
the heat of the summer
on Sandy Bay,
splashing in the icy surf -
Strandlopers -
our fat, shiny bodies
celebrated our lives.
Tramping illegal paths,
thumbs to the
authorities.
Yes, and at De Kelders
we hid in a cave -
now an archeological dig -
as the Secret Police
looked on with their binoculars,
then we returned
chastened
in my white Volksie.
Earlier we had shared
the pinball machine,
you on the left,
me on the right,
then I sat at the end
of your boxed bed
and looked on as you
and your girl
hid under the covers.
I hid behind my naivetée
and my platonic love for you.
It was the last time
I saw you
and I wonder.
Where are you?
2.
A transitory youth
in a transitory country
of trekkers
and migrant labourers
searching for a sense of belonging.
First severed from
our mothers
then severed from
a new country
born of struggles.
Now five generations
count for nothing
because our ancestors stole
from Khoi and Xhosa,
Zulu and Pondo,
Venda and Sesotho,
Bapedi too.
Here lies the Afrikaner soul
buried under shame,
no matter how we search
history laughs;
we stoned ourselves
with Swaziland special once,
reading poetry
amidst burning incense
in farmhouses built by
our Dutch ancestors.
3.
It's no good
you said
I'm ill
and I laid my life down
to save you.
You lived for a while
but it was
no good.
You were right.
Was I wrong to fight
death and its allies?
I tried to reach you,
steel doors shut me out;
I was only as close to you
as the smoke from your cigarette.
What a proud cock
struts with its red comb,
it owns the world
and we are spectators,
only spectators
sequestrated.
4.
I write this for you
if you ever ask after me.
5.
And Margaret sweet Margaret,
forever searching,
a gypsy,
finding no happiness,
unaware of your own strength.
Together we amputate
bits and pieces of our past,
it's good to move on
into silence.
I place the largest log on the fire,
pour more champagne
and smoke my
sixth cigarette.
The Bible lies unopened
and again my thumbs
to the past.
Ah!
Yes, the fire throws
an aura of Protea around me
in this rondawel existence.
I live in a house
shaped like infinity;
you can walk and walk
and never find the end,
a padded lion
in a cage
made by femininity.
A dress with a zip
up the front
but a bra that
catches at the back,
so that a man
can embrace you
and undress you
at the same time.
Oh hell Margaret
there is no greener grass.
END OF STORY

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Glimpses
by: John William McGrath III
from: Mesa, AZ, US

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