The Air I Hear by Keorapetse Kgositsile

Also Read

 

The air, I hear,

froze to the sound

searching. And my memory

present and future tickles

the womb like the pulse

of this naked air

in the eye of a tear

drop. The dead cannot

remember even the memory

of death’s laughter. But memory

defiant like the sound of pain

rides the wave at dawn

in the marrow of the desert

palm: stands looking still

and the bitter shape

of yesterdays weaves

timeless tomorrows

in the leaves

of laughter larger than

singular birth…