I have tried a few
times to write about my last love(r). I have
not yet found a mouth with which to tell. Two years have not created enough distance, maybe
years alone don't.
I only have
suspicions and impulses - they refuse to birth words, not yet anyways. I want
to blame it on race or class or my strange passage through the Cape Colony, or the
time I frightened him because I was too black and too fast and I tapped him on
the shoulder from behind outside my residence in Mowbray. And his habit of locking the car doors upon
sight of those men who have been selling flowers and beaded things on the
corner of Paradise and Edinburgh for as long as I have known the corner of
Paradise and Edinburgh. (They were brown and therefore dangerous, those men).
I think we never
learned to understand together that I am Black and he is White and we have
histories we didn’t create and they are written all over our bodies and
read out loud every time a waiter puts the bill folder on his side of the table.
instead, we layered
silence upon silence upon silence. until we Exploded.

