The Beads Around Her Head


what more could it have been
(rooted in role-play and obligation as it was)
but a sad longing undefined?
what good could it have done to have called it “idiotic” if institution eschews freedom,
and culture refuses to accuse tradition of demonizing spinsterhood?

that’s right –

once upon a time fond tears spilled out of her face. and she would
dangerously slip on them past the reality of her own strength and sanctity.
but to reality she now returns to march and question, seize her wasted armor
and realize that marriage implies a joy your bastille painfully lacked.
like a woman savagely vanquished or a shaman infatuated with prophecy,
she has already begun to speak answers to questions she never asked the God in her.
she has started to collect her tainted fragments so that she may reincarnate herself at the next sunrise.
she has already re-learnt how to smile, and soothe the beads around her head, for peace.

that’s right –

she is going to go out tonight, and feel nice tonight, and stay out all night like it’s 1992.
and because she is with me, the looming clouds of yesterday will part before her, dust will make way for
clarity and Love herself will fiercely hold us in her womb.
you may curse and disgrace her in the most colorful Tswana or the most abrasive English, but
she kisses me like this
because i simply love her;
because unlike you, i will never
splatter her worth against the walls of her loving heart –
a shivery heart now aimlessly loving, but still loving for new beginnings’ sake.

Donald Molosi © November 2010