Poetry

Offerings

Our penance is
Measured out
In mornings
Made
To wait.

An ache,
Furrows brows bathed in
Relief
Bleeding from pores.

In this shifting pitch darkness
Lit wicks,
Set back in alcoves,
Flicker
From frames
Speckled
In salty residue.

Contorted with
Incomprehension,
Knees, near buckled,
Carry us
To the crest
Of each sonic wave.

“This tune is sick!”

A breath
Before the

Drums

Descend

Like human bodies
Resigned
To rocks
Below.

We deify beats now,
Within this syncopated soundscape:
All is a rush
To find space to make
Our
Offerings.

Kayombo Chingonyi