by Phehello Mofokeng

Mind gives birth to thought at the stroke of midnight
it must have been a few moments
before witches came out to play
tangtalisingly stroking against agitated braincells
of minds that could not sleep

Born at the riverbanks of poverty she stood motionless
waiting for destiny’s train to take her to the end of her fate
and when she finally realised that the promise of the train’s arrival
was as empty as that of free education and free housing
she chained her mind to her own shoe laces
so that her thoughts could be closely tied to her only mode of transportation
she fastened wisdom to cranium and carried it like Nefretiti’s crown
she wrapped a blanket of light around her waist
so as to guide her doubtful tommorrows
because she knew …

… she knew that she stood at the beginning of the end
and no one could drink from her cup
not even that man who claimed her as a wife
he became nothing but a mere speck of thought
like a grain of sand that irritated her eye
every minute of the nine months
she carried this poisoned seed in the tomb of her womb
and it was painful
it was as painful as the recollections of her unrecorded past
therefore together she and I stand at the foothills of this mountain
to record the present tense of her midnight thought
we document her partners dreams
of unborn babies dragging their own umbilical cords

that evening he had nightmares
he had nightmares that haunted every corner of his mind’s eye
so after nightfall he travelled in flight
often standing outside of himself
just to investigate his guilt in the death of his daughter
he therefore bound this guilt to his wrists so that he could remember
so that he could remember every time he laboured with his bare hands
his guilt in the death of his daughter

as for she,
she arrested visions of the future in the palm of her hands
and released them at her own will
her eye now catches a glimpse of time
now hollowed by granules of a memory that would not die
and I, I always wanted to tip toe into her fantasies
but my each and every step
is nothing but a mere trod on the fragile and sensitive areas of her heart

to god she prayed
she prayed that her story should be told not in metaphors
but blaring down the eardrums of history
to god she prayed
she prayed against orange sunsets
blessed by the truth of blue tommorrows
that i should deliver this midnight thought

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