There was a crack in the earth just then
when you opened your lips
to tell me the truth for once.
You’ve been hiding behind someone
I recognize, but don’t recall meeting.
A dusty cranium: cobwebs need sweeping.
I decompress with ice clinking in a glass
of wine on my knee,
making kaleidoscope eyes at the ants
crawling behind the greenery.
Something has changed in the colour of the grass
or the colour of your eyes,
because grey most certainly isn’t green
and flowers don’t smell like Listerine.
Unless you’ve been washing my taste away
to mask the mistakes we’ve been tripping over:
a flooded hole you don’t see on a stormy day.
The earth opened and closed to spit me out
as backs were turned and your shadow cast,
asking me what it is I want. The game was lost,
neither of us could have won. But
underneath a crusted scab lies
the essence of life, the beauty in healing,
the heart that can’t, just won’t stop beating.
(Jana Ferreira, 2015)