by Anni Snyman
the last time I had it with me
was on the corner of Jellicoe and Oxford, turning
right. I thought I had stuffed it
into my bag of memory, but this morning when I looked for it
scratched amongst the paper slips, receipts and echoes
of yesterdays conversations and thoughts –
I just. could. not. find it.
Can't put my finger on it
in this wordless pit of grime
that collects at the bottom of my knowing.
Chewey sweets and broken endearmints
glossy coins, shadowed eyes
pigment scattered everywhere
Who's to say what it was worth?
the Nobel or the Nothing?
Was it stillborn loss or merely menstruation
Is it now a blessing or a curse
ghosting about, seeking its maker?
Thought I would clear things out,
allow it rise again, but
it's not in the emptiness of yoga
either, even though I stretch and stretch
sweat dripping on the mat
breath on my tongue,
Ohmmmm in my throat.
All I can remember is
that I lost it
and that there was
a scrap of sense