Anxiety in Mosaic

FENCE

28 The talk in whispers went by – very like Tiny whistling breezes amongst the dusk-covered leaves – That it could be poor little Sylvia cried, carrying simply In her heart, a teenager’s mere fondness For he who lay there, frowning At his turn to sleep The last slumber of men But no one knew… No one knew Poor little Sylvia’s secret rapist Had placed in her tender little heart and soul The fear of the devil And on she wept, poor little Sylvia Not knowing That some anti-retroviral day this day She shall lie there… Smiling rather At her own turn to sleep The last slumber of men FENCE* Amazon Mama Wooden dilapidations of drab; The tottering, straw-roofed homes Tilt over gutters of long-standing slime; Sad enemies of the nostrils Close by A bare skinny lad in greasy rags Plays with his crown corks 29 As inside the suffocation of their sultry shack His Amazon mama groans at excruciating titillations Of the manhood. The long-tortured bed in its turn Grumbles out loud at the strain of every move Upon creaking hinges The poor aged door swings open Ah! Good morning in the burning afternoon But he sneaks out bashfully, buttoning up away Feeling bad Outstretched hands then fling far Water from a bucket: after-wash of the hurriedly cleaned womanhood Whose tiny splashes catch the gutter lads at their play. The man on the road spits out a sigh In an earth-mound verandah Sits her on her low stool, tarrying the next caller Her gaze follows the passer by The length of the street To her; his Amazon mama And to him; her famish-eyed ‘bastard’ Does daily bread fall thus From skies of sweat Or offered By the base hands Of ignominy? I wonder *A neighbourhood. K-Town ...