Be One With My Femme
The colour of the air is stained by her breath. She was born and it was yellow, the skies cleared and made way for you dear.
Up from the ground she grows, and learns to guard the gates to her soul because these thieves only take their piece and leave. Imburdened, the load is too heavy for her back to hold so it broke. Now she doesn’t know which side of the road to go.
Her mind tires do you know what its like to have your spirit die down by the hour?
There’s no air up here just bottles drained to their bottoms. She pierces metals through her flesh, drills ink into her skin, bends over and lets him in. Red sensuous strokes, sweat dripping, bodies slipping. Her moan is his melody till he’s done and it interrupts his frequency.
When your face is pressed against the ground, reflect my dear. It’s only going up from here.
Remember child, Ke bo kgarebe, masela ae thloboga makgathlapa ae kolobetsa serope. Dumela ngwana sebaka. One day the dust turns into gold, she comes into her own, bless her soul. One day the dust turns into gold,she comes into her own, bless her soul.
Be one with my femme.
Prose by Kea Mooka
Photo by Jooz Photography