I want what comes after

I want what comes after:

the first lifted bucket’s clang

once the rooster’s all crowed out,

a keen thirst for fresh water

as sequel to that sound

 

your smell drying on my skin,

your fingers brushing briefly

against my stomach as you stir

awake from dozing: or, when

you’ve gone, an empty shape

left sprawled asleep within

the blankets on my bed.

 

I want what comes after:

the miraculous vigil of a moth

unburnt beside us in the sheets;

toast starting to brown, the nails

of a scabby cat across the floor, 

conclaves of birds upon the eaves

 

the rustle of trees as they begin

to post their letters to the wind -

wind that’s strong enough to blow

off a roof of morning mist, a sky

like a field that begs a plough

emerging. And the two of us

looking outside to find the dawn

to which we’ll trust our bodies.


from Absent Tongue (Hands-On Books, 2012), © Kelwyn Sole 2012, used by permission of the author and the publishers, Modjaji Books

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