Dear Théophile
i imagine your bed
stills smells like burnt sugar
and keen aching
i cannot cross the threshold
that room is steeped in a fever so ravenous
it devours the air
lately,
i’ve been thinking about all the hungers
in men’s chests
because
something about absence and
the heart growing fonder
Dear Théophile,
you and i belong
to the same bruised piece of earth
the rivers
and anthems
and old names
are in you
still i smell
the hot bread
the overripe mangos
the filthy currency
still i feel
the sweltering april sky
the villages aflame
the pot-holes like wounds
in my side
Dear Théophile,
where are you now?
where will this find you?
how do i tell you your hands were scripture
in full bloom
each finger a slender verse
i knew nothing of such kindness
mercy me
though i have not seen them in years
i pray they can still make
okra soup
ginger beer
wenge figurines
a fist
a plea
théophile,
of all the prayers
commit but one to memory:
me before you
théophile,
you bury me
**************
Post image by Monique Prater via Flickr
About the Author:
Sarah Lubala works as a Development Worker for an Education NGO in Johannesburg. When she’s not at the office, she can be found in gardens, drinking copious amounts of tea and reading Pablo Neruda’s Love Sonnets.
Omolara February 02, 2017 02:29
Beautiful.