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I negotiate the interregnum
between +27 and your 'Speaking.'
Your boy calls from abroad.
We take the guns,
walk the whole perimeter of the farm
hunting buck.
Gunstocks invest our sholders.
Grass heads robe our eyes.
Shot. Shot.
Gunpowder attends our nostrils.
Two springbok slaughtered.
You process the kill.
The sun crowns your head,
the blood anoints your hands.
We drink a beer
enthroned in the veld,
feet on a cushion
of antelope. No
network
coverage. I fall
to the pavement,
the hour between
work and home,
people negotiating
zebra crossings.
Matthew John Williams
2003