Your sweet ululation sips into my conscience
And your praise of me floats outward to spot the clear blue
Slathering, on its way, faces marred with hypocrisy
As if women can’t sing odes to each other
As if body and soul need forever be parallel
As if you can’t be my soul sister and my beloved.
What do we say then to our daughters who want for ways to love,
Ways to love themselves in other women and love other women selflessly,
When a language for this love has not been found?
When love’s eyes have been turned inside out
And they only see what lies outside of them?
So I draw up a kind of language with my body
I don’t get it right
I don’t want to. What is right?
We love in passioned caricature
Corrupting what parallels me to you
And the chaos lie listlessly mid-air
Outlining the sighs that cling to large wooden beams
Poetry by Sally Kahiu © 2015