Weighed and Wanting
In four standard sizes.
She says: I am losing my way in my own back garden. She says: I walk out of the house, down the back stairs. And suddenly I don’t know which way to turn to get back.
She says: Most days I have to sit on my hands to stop them flying off in all directions. She says: Most days I have to hold on to my head to stop it running off with the stray cats that howl under my window. She says: Most days I have to drink my own spit that drips from my mouth like a rabid dog’s. To stop it dripping from my mouth like a rabid dog’s.
She says: Something is eating me inside my head. She says: I don’t know what to do with my hands. When they start to make the action of a vacuum cleaner. Across my head. She says: There is something that sounds like a leaf blower. That keeps starting up in my head. She says: In the green water of the public pool. I see three heads reflected on my shoulders. She says: The first one is mine. The second belongs to the lifeguard. And the third one is my dead father’s. Whom I never knew.
She says: Comfort me with stones. She says: Comfort me with sand and ash. She says: The wind is grey now. And the sky is cold. And everything is far too big for me to fit into.
Kobus Moolman was born in 1964 in Pietermaritzburg. He is an Associate Professor of Creative Writing at the University of the Western Cape. He holds a PhD in English Studies from the University of KwaZulu-Natal.
Among many platitudes, he is the recipient of the 2015 Glenna Luscehi Prize for African Poetry for his collection A Book of Rooms (deep south).