by Doné de Beer

In the crevice of my boot soles still lies dirt
from the Blue Mountains we trekked last winter. I keep
finding traces of you, even when I’ve scrubbed the wound raw.

I can still taste the crunchy-softness of homemade bread
and the sweet-spice of pumpkin soup at the Yellow Deli.
I still recall your kindness-cruelty.
How so many things exist in contradiction.

I dream of getting in my car and driving the
same roads we did. Retracing the dips and
bends, the stretches of dry fields –
broken up by scraps of new growth.
Feverishly green.

Just a few months ago a fire
razed this whole country to the ground.
Just a few months ago we were
perfectly fine (I swear).

I would mimic the way we played the music
loud enough to feel it in our teeth.
Windows all the way down, I can’t hear the words.
You are driving so fast.

I would follow the M1 too, I’d stick my
head out the window,
my hair movie-wild,
sun-drenched,
feverishly alive,
scream-sing along with the music,
let myself laugh again.

My car would give out before I even reached the border.