Small Birth

you need an idea –
a knot in the skin
to trigger explosions.

you need a vast mouth
unfixed from jaw
no crawlspace or pause.

Then the soul-letting –
the concentrated outpour of chaos
the relentless stripping to bone.




Small fawns jostle and crowd,
bolder in gatherings.
A tentative hoof at the earth
tempts a tremor
or a call –

nobody’s listening.
Sweet fawns
inherit the morning.

I know they’re here
from the way the light bends –
from the true pull of air
in their direction –

smooth as milk.
First bones signal an era

a circle of stone.




At an age between joy and desertion
(soaring stomach-jolt joy
                                                cold wind-whistling grey)
we propped up as dummies and talked.

You talked and talked.
I leaned, bald and empty as deserts
watching you move and roar as waves roar.
The sounds you made flew out like fists.

                                                   (only the wind could sing like this)



Eyebrow darkened with kohl
pockets laden with stones
blonde head in the oven
lungs eating Cape water
tyres melting with screams
fists banging out a voice
on the face
of the minister’s door –

is this all?

The apron strings will smoke,
the rings on the fingers
will melt in our fire.