the poem is a revenge on loss

not
swinging on threads
of a body unfurling
not mid-air
nowhere
near midflight
unravelling on ground, soil,
dirt,
caught on the shell of a dung beetle
shiny black sheen
singing shadows,
pull, hold, bend, fit
onto the beetle’s back

– the poem is a revenge on loss

*The title of this piece is a line from Louise Gluck.

Cover photo: Passage by Mohau Modisakeng

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