body

madiba rising

we call all the fires of africa together below this ocean-sky, thrilling surf, gulls, wind

and your breath and my breath (i want what sounds of you again. and to share this. it is yours too)

madiba

i never had the chance to ask where you buy your shirts that i admired so

(your widow is sad that makes me sad)

you are the melody of doves in the sunday trees before church, mornings when we knelt by our beds and prayed 

i, too wary not to and the rest righteous and sure. we sat in sturdy pews, in virgin whites , imagining our own deaths,

our eyes unsinkable in tears and before lunch we floated back, rivers of milk, hearts aglow, eyes ablaze, hats aflow, girls of gold and silver

we may have met that time. robben island as mythical as the small boat for rough seas,

the large boat for calm oceans (it made no sense at all), the sun mostly kissing my shoulders

as i sat on that deck, nose filled with bamboo, fish, brine, waves, wind, the odd dentist.

i, in love with your prison isle and that free sky. we shared the blue table mountain view,

mine from it, yours to it. twice a week. heavens square and limitless blue, mine.

small blue squares limited view, yours

(years later those perfectly painted light white boxes, ice cubed in large trays, the trip on the boat

felt fake then, the buildings too, for i remembered too well the vacation-feel eons ago.

for me, this side and for you, that side of the barbed wire, so unaware and untainted,

we moved, some barely touched by sharpeville. we did not know your heart then and your

ever-tolerance,  your tolerance, your benevolence, your deep liberty

i did not know that the death of you is the celebration of you. i recognize now the release

that you had borne in a heart without bars, without the colour of your skin, without the colour of my skin,

your redemption blooming in our lives like sunflowers with a mind all peppermint and sun,

open and white and you turning it into an un-commissioned gift that you paid forward, like your royalty, like your loyalty

madiba

and i never had the chance to ask where you buy your shirts that i admired so

(your widow is sad that makes me sad)

ever together, you were still a part that set me free, heart mirrored free heart. one grassland one savannah

the re-gift of unshackled surplus-issue and love to match. each our own. the same together.

your widow is sad while your great grandchildren play

seasofme171213yebo

the motor vehicles on robben island do not need to have number plates or be registered in any way or be road worthy (at least, this is how it used to be)