Maybe I’ve not been kind. Maybe the soft skin of my boy
as he scraps loudly to the ground when he falls running is not mine
to behold or touch, like, oh Jesus beholding the weight of Heaven
knowing no one else is deserving of it, like maybe
I’m not good at making the boy stop crying. I love him rootless.
I tell him about Jesus as a window through suffering and the heaviness
of goodness but he likes the extravagances best; how water spills
through a distance of air to touch a gourd and become the flavour
of fat grapes; wine which catches the throat. Maybe the scars
I’ve collected will remain scars to him. I won’t lie — it feels beyond
sacred to stand here torched by sunlight and watch the boy’s nervous smile
through large and pink teeth gaps as he picks himself from the dirt,
ready to laugh or cry. Maybe his laugh becomes the soundtrack to everything,
the way his voice is all intonation like music, like maybe I begin here.
Farai Chaka is a Zimbabwean who was born and raised in the capital city of Harare. He has attended different schools including Bradley High School and Glen View 1 High School. He is an aspiring writer, and he enjoys reading African and American literature, listening to music, and musing over poetry. He particularly enjoys time on Pinterest and Twitter, and cannot be persuaded to forsake either.
Email: faraichaka517@gmail.com