South Africa

my memories, they are not of Ethiolo 
of small feet winding 
down a dusty path to a water-well worn 
with the chatter of women, girls I used to know 

I can’t see the dirt, red against your ankles
hear the call of buckets to one another 
sloshing in the sway of hips
flip flops mingled in the early morning light

I remember knives flying 
tongues sliding 
across the smooth expanse of the language we shared
stretched through our fingers as peppers danced, green 
into your pan 

the screech of a wheelbarrow 
bare feet slapped 
across the bricks, padded
through the sand 

I remember 
sticky heat, and 
breeze through my hair
waves lapping 
against a shore that curves into the distance 
lost blue in a city sky 

by Kekelime