Sonnet
My hande was van altyd af onpaar:
skraal, vroulik en beskeie is die linker,
haar maat is ferm, grofgekneukeld, flinker,
maar net so links met greep, groet of gebaar.
Verwonderdheid, besinning, wanhoop, angs,
die dinge wat die bloedstroom plotseling strem,
dryf hul soms saam in asemlose klem,
maar dan los elk, verleë, gou sy vangs.
Selfs in die voorgeboortelike vog
het hulle onafhanklik rondgeroei
en was nooit waarlik aan mekaar verknog.
Ek twyfel of hul ooit behoorlik tuis
kan raak of tot eenparigheid sal groei
vóór iemand hulle oor my borskas kruis.
Sonnet
My hands have been an odd pair first to last:
the left is ladylike, slim, unassuming
her mate is nimble, firm, with knuckles looming,
cack-handed though in gesture, greeting, grasp.
Amazement, contemplation, fear, despair,
such things as can make pulses quickly soar,
will sometimes make them tightly clasp or more,
but, much embarrassed, let go then and there.
Even in amniotic fluid they
would flail around not getting anywhere,
with no coordination in their play.
I doubt if they will ever come to rest
or grow into a true and single pair
till someone folds them both across my chest.
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