Ma Will Be Late
that I come back to you
tired and without memory
that the kitchen door is open I
shuffle in with suitcases hurriedly bought presents
my family’s distressed dreams
slink down the corridor the windows stained
with their abandoned language in the hard
bathroom light I brush my teeth
put a pill on my tongue: Thur
that I walk past where my daughter sleeps
her sheet neatly folded beneath her chin
on the dressing table silkworms rear in gold
that I can pass my sons
frowning like fists against their pillows
their restless undertones bruise the room
that I can rummage a nightie from the drawer
slip into the dark slit behind your back
that the warmth flows across to me
makes me neither poet nor human
in the ambush of breath
I die into woman
by Antjie Krog
from Down to my Last Skin; Random House,
South Africa, 2000