A Poem

By Mthabisi Sithole

for our skins, there is no escape
in yours and mine, we only rest
in moments and ephemera,
in odes and accolades
to an embargo with self
with ink and easy skirts;
we lay the paint thick

we build mires
to uncover, to break
with all colour, our altars and sass.
to make mum a cry
and all flash in our step

in yours, in mine
there is the choir’s breath
it’s an “eish” -and itch-
of bodies humming, bothered with aches
and the songs between