In the place of slaughter
blood stains are not an anomaly.
Normally,
    the stain of love begins
with a government’s betrayal,
   a sacrilegious feast
on the battered dreams of
migrant workers
   chimurenga wars
and forgotten anthems of freedom.

            a salary and a salt
plea for sweeter waters
  The pension drought that
plagues my grandfather’s existence
  and that of his diaspora daughter.

We carry a nation’s carcass on behalf
of political vultures.

An underlying disease that sinks
into the very gums of our teeth.
        Most nights I say a prayer for you,
wrapped in the silhouette of summer’s sparkling
thigh or her weepy sunset

And when winter arrives with her presidential
joys and residential sorrows
a catharsis of bleeding chimneys
on wealthy estates

I believe skyscrapers to be lovers, not
buildings
A kind of architectural grief
towering over the metropolis of one’s mind
I think of cities as ordinary people
rushing home in the rain
dancing over the potholes of
their past

I wonder,
Can you stitch a body like a warm coat or light
the invisible thread of desire or is it
better to just go out and buy another
pack of candles?

****

[Courtesy of the author]

Link to the Italian translation