Sunday 3 May 2020

Albertina Soepboer: Peter's denial


Your hands in the water, hauling in your nets, your fish
the morning is a strangled cry in your throat
it is not enough now he appears to be a distance
now he has found his father, your fingers are
bare and tattered, like the edges of that lake
of ochre, your empty nets, when they call you and
say that he has gathered in this death, but
in your ears the crowing of the cocks, of constantly
that one night when you would know nothing of love
now they cry out around you and you don your robe
smooth the white shirt, leap into the maelstrom
with what his fish-body has ever proffered you.

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