Holographs

One hundred and fifty million truth seekers 
at the trough of the evening news 
arteries bumping and writhing 
against Pik Botha's belly 
a keg of sound
and how does it feel
to bury this baby you nursed for a year 
weighing less than when she was born?

60,000 Pondo women keening 
on the mountain
the smell of an alley in Gugeleto 
after the burned bodies are dragged through 
pennywhistles and stickdrum beats 
earth under the high—arched feet 
of deadly exuberant children 
stones in their kneepants pockets 
running toward Johannesburg 
some singing   some waving
some stepping to intricate patterns 
their fathers knew   tomorrow 
they will be dead.

How can I mourn these children 
my mothers and fathers 
their sacred generous laughter
the arms' bright marrow
willow shadows upon the stair 
Young men do not dream of dying 
they seek the taut sinew 
pulled the passions of use 
a latch slid into place 
in the cold flickering light 
the only dependable warmth 
is the burn of the blood.