I’m sorry I beheld you like a painting
I’m sorry I never held you like a person
I’m sorry I couldn’t complete the story you started writing as a boy
About the child inside a whale

I’m sorry I couldn’t finish your tale
About the girl cradled in an orange rind
I’m sorry I could not be the story
Of your woman of glory…

I just failed to find
Where you ended and I began
So I ran…

Die ou vrou sit en pyp rook op die stoep
Terwyl die son sak
Sy sien my raak
En begin te roep.

Sy sê, “Kind
Kom bietjie nader.”
Sy sê, “Kind
Jy lyk net soos jou vader.”

Met krag
Wat ek nooit sou verwag nie
Gooi sy haar arms om my lyf
Sy druk my styf.

En sy lyk net soos ‘n spook
Sy ryk na rook
Sy sê, “Kind
Kind help my.
Daar is dele van my lewe wat verdwyn.
Help my hul vind.”

Silwer soos spinnerakke
Is haar haare
Haar stem klink
Soos herfs se blaare.

Sy rus haar kop op my skouer
Sy haal moeilik asem
Sy vluister, “Kind
Jou hart klop nes jou ma s’n.”

Om ons word dit stadig skemer
Om ons word dit skielik somer

Sy sê, “Kind
Hou my nader vas.”
“Want jy ryk nes ek,” sê sy.
“Toe ek nog mens was.”

There is a little girl with a marble torch that shines nothing but the colour she is made of. And the strings, like that of a marionette that keep her alive – and moving – are attached to the hand of one she does not recognise. Little puppet, little puppet, lick my skin.

Faulty fingers molest her moving. And she becomes bright – like something unrecognisable to God. And she twists her hips in longing, in revolt, to a moth that is drawn to her and refuses to die. She slaps her skin, reddens the blue to create a purple so devoid of anything, she lacks the strength to cry. She lacks the will to breathe.

My body is an alligator. Mirrors detest me. Men’s eyes pest me. And every time I blink I am a little less of what I was before. And a little more of what I could’ve been.