What Does it Take?


I grew up in the violence
of apartheid . Do I want
to go back? Even now,
my significant objects
here in my treehouse
flat with a balcony,
relieved to feel each
angry mile of history
disintegrate, one memory
raps its knuckles
on my heart’s door.
Late one night
the door bell rang
at my cousin’s house.
The woman who worked
for my grandmother
stood bleeding before us,
deep cuts on her cheeks,
slashed with a broken bottle.
My uncle sent her away,
to the servant’s entrance.
Shut the door on her
split and bloody face.
That day I began
to pack my invisible bags,
pictured the water and sky
I would cross to leave this,
knowing wounds heal
but asking what does it take
for the soul to recover?