Page 24 - LockDown Poetry

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Where Bone Meets Blood

Khaya Ngoma

This neighbourhood next door;

They wear no bones to dinner dates and workplaces,
Neither do they have bones for supper.

Did they miss the part where bone meets blood?
I suppose we ought to have painted ours whiter,

I suppose our skin would have bled lighter.

What makes their bones whiter than ours, anyway?

Are these neighbours bone- or blood-blind?

We travel in kilos, they travel in meters.

Their asphalt boasts our fathers’ sweat as road markings,

Yet we suffer their frowns for demanding our paint.
Are these neighbours future- or history-blind?

Our fury is as just as the label on their skin.
Thus, through time and education,

We will rant until whoever is moved moves.

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