Longing

for K. Sello Duiker

I sleep when I am tired

When there’s a hummingbird in my mouth

A starling swimming in a cup of honey

On my kitchen table

I was so good at giving 

my heart away to the flowers,

to the rain, to the sky, 

to the empty field behind my house

I am tired of being mentally ill,

this chronic sickness,

this flame

the powers that be

I watch it burn between my fingers

It tastes of Palestine

Cold stone turned into rubble

Make it go away

But it doesn’t go away

Look!

Wildflowers have started 

to grow next to my bed in the hospital

next to the bars at my window

I needed sanity in my life

Every woman needs that

So I imagined their beauty,

their growth

the growth and beauty 

of the wildflowers

Every woman needs that

In my bedroom, at home

a cobweb covers the rose,

my mother’s wizened hands

and fingers as she makes my bed

She bought me a journal,

a new pen,

new books

She places these gifts

on the table next to my bed

welcoming me home

She doesn’t say that she loves me

She doesn’t say that I’ve been missed

The gifts are enough

The fact that they tidied up my room

that my mother’s made up my bed

I dance in the Imperial dark

by myself, barefoot,

to the lonely notes of pianist Olga Scheps

The bathwater turns into seawater

The kitchen turns into the shore

I hug the red fox 

bleeding into the sheet

I hand my father his teeth

and towel-dry my hands

I watch him shave

We read the newspaper

in the sitting room

We drink coffee

We eat cheese sandwiches

We talk

Years later

I am standing in the kitchen

thinking back to my first breakdown

My brother makes eggs 

While he makes the eggs

he shouts at me

Those were his words and not my own,

I tell myself

I ate the green olives gingerly

Olives for breakfast

They tasted delicious and cold

The men in my life

that tension and spark

didn’t know what to do

with me really

Only that I could never

be wife material

Only that I could never 

raise children

Oh, madwomen couldn’t do that

Years later

I am alone

remembering all of this

all of them

remembering the breakdown

how it changed me

how it broke me in waves

The kitchen turns into the shore

The bathwater turns into seawater

I sink

I fall

I think

I know it all

Cloud people turn to dust in the rain

Another year turns into a birthday cake

A woman brings life into the world

The father, my brother, nurtures the child

Calls his daughter “Princess”

My father loves me

He turns the wrinkled prunes 

and custard into a feast meal

I was loved

I am loved

I will love myself and take care of myself

It’s much too late

The clock doesn’t work anymore

Yes, it’s much too late.

flame

in the silence

in this, this lonely hour

Gaza falls

like the neck of a wildflower falls

this too shall pass

do you remember the past

your past

i am in the cave again

how your voices warm my heart

how your voices comfort me

a bird spilled out of me

i am 19 years old

getting on a bus to Johannesburg

not knowing I will go mad there

that it will be six months

before I will see the sun again

the leaves are sad for me

this singing forest, my mother

there is a terror inside of me

the voices murmur something

something about a baptism

i am only a passenger

a passenger who lost her mind

the marbles rock the children to sleep

the children i will never have

the son and daughter i will never have

speak, memory of light, of war

before I disinherit you

summer. salt. tears

the highway falls through the sky

i read everything

i can even read your mind,

this silence

this perception and topography of light healed all my wounds

bloodless grass

on reading that sad story Flowers For Algernon

flame

tomato seeds plastered on my tongue

tasting of summer in the salad

droplets of seawater

against my skin

cold. wet. plasma

the shake of the fish seismic

these pills fill me or are they peas

please fix me, i cried

my mother doesn’t love me

i doubt she ever has

perhaps when i was a baby

no

perhaps when i cried

in her own mother’s arms

i don’t know

perhaps when she knew

that i was going to be a writer

at eight

well, maybe

at twelve, when the typewriter appeared

perhaps when she 

bought adult diapers for me

but she never told me,

her manic depressive daughter

in so many words

that she loved me

i am still crying

middle-aged i am still crying

please, please fix me

fix what is broken

make me whole again

bring my father back to life

i’m changing

i’m changing

watch how proteas grow

out, yes, out of my fingers

watch how they hiss, 

snake and groove

just look at how perfect the day is

Don’t you forget about me, pinky swear promise me, R.

I’m sick, R.

It’s my kidneys

(they don’t

work so nicely

anymore) and

my heart and 

so sometimes

I get tired. So, so 

tired. Today was

one of those 

days. You’re

two-years-old so 

you don’t really

understand

but I’m telling

you anyway so

that you’ll

understand one day

So, today you

weren’t mine

So, today you

didn’t belong 

to me. Your

father kept you

 hidden from me.

You didn’t 

sing for me. We

didn’t watch

 television together.

I didn’t 

cook for you.

I was crazy, he 

said. I felt no

shame. Many 

people had

called me that. I 

sat in my bedroom

as your father 

shouted at me.

Where’s the food?

He screamed, as

he walked down

the passage

with you in his arms

You do goddam

nothing in this

 house. It didn’t

matter. Nothing 

mattered. Only

the composer 

Maurice Ravel.

I could feel him 

in my bones, you

know? He was

shielding 

me from my

brother’s gaze.

Lifting me towards

the foam of the

sea threatening

to engulf me via

the ceiling . Oh,

you’ll see. You’ll forget 

me. Just like

other family members, 

just like my mother

on my birthday, the 

church, the

Johannesburg

People. This

memory of

isolation is so 

deep. Today

you didn’t ask for

me but that

didn’t make me cry

It was, forget

about her, she’s

crazy, (I mean

what kind of man

says that 

to a two year old.)

Soon I’ll disappear,

vanish like chocolate

into thin air. There’s

no key that can fit

into the cage

of my heart

anymore. Shush.

Close your eyes.

Go to sleep. I

am only a dream.

He screams and

screams. The man

screams and

screams at me

but all I can hear

is Olga Scheps  and

Maurice Ravel. Look!

I am turning

into a pianist,

a composer. They’re

standing for me

like they stood for

Beethoven. There’s

no more pain.

Everything that

I do is still wrong

but there’s no more

pain. There’s no

longer a cage in

front of and behind

me, an order and

routine of isolation.