Fresh from a Forehead
is flesh that feeds the assegai
of nationhood; he will die
by the arms we bear, that little
foreign boy next door;
I will kill his tongue
which has acquired the favour
of our jobs. This lekoerekoere,
this boy, this migrant who
must die. Our impi at dawn
puts a blaze on them to disable
the movement of their thought.
The ground under our feet
holds us up and does nothing
to stop us. The glass buildings
of Johannesburg stare
without a word. The boy looks
at me, but I forgot my pity
at home.The hole on his head
is like it has been scooped
with a watermelon baller;
blood dribbles down his face;
the hemoglobin in his mouth
gives an aftertaste of iron.
South Africans who fled
apartheid into our countries
and went home when it was
finished are the bright
green stuff found on copper
that has started to corrode.
The copper is their country.

(18 April 2015)