Tomes-and-Grimoires

They die too loudly here - a barking, trumpeting sound that keeps everyone else awake. Some say it is the salt in the water tickling through the IV or the televisions or microwaves talking in each room. I can hear the hum of metal each time the nurse shifts her skirt or leans over to tie her shoes. They come too close to us, afraid of camoflauge of the smell of orange and then pretend they did not mean it. Lunch is biscuits and rice pudding or green jello in a styrofoam cup and a straw puncturing a carton of milk. At night we play cards - spades or hearts or dominoes with tiles someone's uncle left behind or forgot to put away. And we will

The lovely violence of your words - desperate feedback where I sit on the train wondering why this city rolls its streets in so early. You were innocent - except for that sigh that swung between your hips; and I swear I never saw it coming - blank verse and vowels left trembling and all your gods come out to play.

Let the stars make their protest; let them trip us roughshod and unkempt - Orion is at our side tonight, and the dust from long ago settles on this side of heaven. The air is spangled here - it rests upon us in a silver tallith unravelling across the vaulted sky and lingers where our fingers clasp. We have lost the moon, that wanton keeper of lies and wishes only virgins make in summer; and night,   that naked warrior, blushes in this unkempt heat and holds our senses hostage.

The scent of longing in this glass - and your skin, petals rubbing raw; the sound of water on the glass- your face turning away as you lick your lips and my tongue traces wine across your hips. That hush of want disappearing in the soft crush of morning gone astray.

In silence your chariot approaches. Bright light, a piece of heavens. A man of destiny, a prince, grandfather of his nation, returns home to the heavens that birthed him. A moral authority, of grace and peace who helped lay aside the chains of oppression with a soft laugh and guiding hand. Your ride home is here, not to the village where you took first breath, but to the heavens where your soul was forged to change the course of a people, a nation, a world and the history that is to follow. Relax, enjoy the ride home, knowing that you have sown well the seeds of peace. Madiba, you are a leader who did not need a gun or threats of terror, bu