She told me that it was good to cry, that it
had a beautifying effect on the soul. “But
why do I find it parasitic: cleansing old wounds while wetting my current.”
“Indani! All this crying is making me stink.”
Wet wood given too little time to dry
before the next storm, that’s what my
sunshine does for me. I am not electroplated,
and it pains me to observe the slow pace at which I deteriorate. You
know that the only things that live beside
puddles are slimy, and dragon flies leave
when night falls.
“Then stop.” And I can’t.
Time has shown me that sometimes the rot formed
Post image by Fabio Pani via Flickr
About the Author:
Nqobile C. Mofokeng is a first-year student at the University of the Free State in South Africa where she studies Human and Societal Dynamics. She enjoys extensive reading, and writing is her passion, poetry in particular. Firstborn of her mother’s two daughters, she is a superstitious Taurus.