October 24, 2025

by TAONGA SANDEMA

Sickle

sickle shaped knife slicing through red 

slices, falls. on the kitchen floor 

shaking with rage – everything

turns red. 

rose coloured glasses bleeding – still

life portrait of a boy with his whole life ahead of him. 

everything: Black.

in mulberry season, fences poke ribs –

hands stain blue

Black, sticky and no one is angry.

branches left bare in the neighbour’s yard, an ode to full stomachs no one is angry

at you.

you smile sky bright and blue joyed, marrowed

immovable breathless window into a silver lined future. 

if your body is a church, then i am the holy ghost wreaking havoc in the oasis outline of your wake – sing worthy into your skin,

mulberries at every altar. 

maybe

maybe if Isaac had a little sister – someone

willing to spill their own blood for his salvation. someone

who would look god’s bluff in the eyes and say

i have nothing to lose except him.

and if i was the ram, 

what then?