We head home
by a trail round
the lower villages
to avoid stopping
for a drink at
Moselantja’s place,
your cheeks
red in spring air,
a sense of life
darting through
your blood. I’m

walking for health,
your young quack
thinks I’m as good
as in the tomb, wants
to haul me back
out–he shoulda met
Niclas when he was
around. But you
added your voice
to his and so here
we are, sweating
Sunday afternoon.

We turn right after
the villages and
head for the woods,
the sound of hoof
on twig deserting us.
It’s all I can do
not to pee on a tree,
your only proof
to tell whether or not
I been drinkin’. It’s
all I can do not to think
of my babyhood dream,
pissin’ in the forest.
© Rethabile Masilo