A January evening

I’m fond of lists:
checked boxes
and crossed out actions.
I like scented candles and jazz
                    – with no vocals,
                sometimes, you must serenade yourself.
I like eggs in all forms, except boiled,
            peanut butter – crunchy.
I like writing, mine and others,
it’s all part of us occupying the universe
one jot at a time.
Silence is not the blank page, it’s the pen raised.
I got distracted by the moon last night, it was icy
and the clouds had shivered away,
the moon though, the moon,
she hung low, exposed
like the V above supple bosoms
and she smiled, I swear
she smiled as I drove by.

Aunty Tina

Panting from your second to third shift
an eyewitness said you left the earth
before slumping to the ground,
paramedics said it was most likely your heart.

Bequeathing fair complexion to your sons,
memories and old scents with a father
who buries his smile in gravel,
whose head hung bowed in the back pews for a while
until he left, faith in a sopor.

Your oldest is six and has your lips
your youngest is four, a faint spoor of you.

For a long time, they may not know the often irritable
woven wool spun around spicy traditional meals,
knitted in numerous missed calls, mundane voicemails,
soft wrath, soothing lullabies,
on itchy January mornings like these
they may never know that warmth.