of migrating wildebeest
on the Seregeti,
was clamorous all week.
I captured some of it
in the dry ink lined barrel
of the green fountain pen
that carved me into a poet.
I’ll write with rainwater;
confessions can’t choke on
invisible ink.
i.
My love for you is
a shooting star, it burns
bright and fast, looks pretty
on dark nights, and dies
in transit; dust litters
your plane on lucky days.
ii.
I stack my loneliness
in cardboard boxes reeking
of whitewashed walls
splashed with disinfectant,
and bury them in my backyard,
beneath the bed of roses.
iii.
Grief sits heavily like
grandmother’s necklace and
mother’s pendant, passed down
to rest on my sternum.
I’d sell it off by weight but
discarding an heirloom
makes me a disgraceful
daughter so I wear it
until it digs through my ribs.
iv.
When I lie in silence
in the cubic space of
my room, paying to exist,
while the world is still
and the moon is bright,
high tide waves of guilt
drown me; stillness is an
unappreciated art,
and I’m the pioneer.
For a split second I
imagine loud voiced discourse
around square tables
on these condensed
non confessions.
When the rainwater ink
runs dry, I’ll be left with
a blank page and only
possibly imagined
traces of subtle blue ink.