Thirty second HIV test: positive or negative status indicated by the number of vertical stripes formed after a drop of blood has been introduced into a special solution contained in a small receptacle.

One line     or      two lines

     never three lines

that’s the way it works

in this truth story

  one   line           

   two   

   lines

blood drips onto the plastic boat

you take a voyage to far off places

   dark heaving places where your heart clots 

 becomes swollen saggy yellowish sacs 

     one line       

two 

lines

blood hits the boil

breath blows up a high pressure zone

eyes squirm with salt

a dead lifetime floats into the future 

     sunrays shine bright 

even     as they      waver

    one line

two   

   lines

only pulse beats away       

the beginning or end of hot or cold kisses

seconds in which the mind and the memory

infect soft wet mucous 

    one line        

     two 

lines 

the ship’s doctor readies a white coat

furies leer along the coastline

you will bless or damn this voyage

but you cannot choose where to drop anchor

      the choice long made     long lived      

or was it?

one line 

two 

lines

the crew’s down below

all those baring your sex 

can you remember his or her face in the dark?

the slide into and out of that body

             the heat 

do you recall any cuts     any sores in the days after?

   do you recall any scratches?

one line 

two 

lines

you crouch as waves wash the deck

seek a life boat

where’s your jacket?

the escape hatch is locked

O          T  L

N                              I

E             W                    N

L                                E

I         O                       S

N

E 

three’s a crowd in this pathology

that’s how it spreads

but

you can’t stop 

2. "Dandelions In The Desert"

A line from a poem by an inmate of ‘Sun City’ (Diepkloof Prison, Johannesburg)

Maximum security:       murderers     rapists     hijackers     

minimum sentence:                   fifteen years

some seek to smuggle their hearts out

smuggle out the bruises

branded in orange suits      sterilized monks

divided according to their studies

ability to manage the daily blur of lockup 

without shrieks   conspiracies to escape 

   without records of internal mayhem

boxed in with a double-bunk     table     toilet    radio     tv    

a few  books to blot out the shiny concrete walls

boxed by scissor-sharp grill bars  across a window

            three men together so if one is killed

                  there’ll be a witness

they watch the clock hands with or without hope 

with or without fear

for whatever happened      happened

whatever took place at some place    at some time

   took place at some time

and now each day they must wake to boiled food  

   coarse and joking warders

smells of a cage      the smells of other cages

  stiff cocks   or dead/soft

they must wake in the nights        clutch their blankets

      clutch themselves

  clutch at the saviour sugared by chaplains

and these clean shaven men bring us their poetry

their cries and rants     their whispers

yes      some dare to look within the deeds

that cost life     cost them their lives

these men bring out their poems

            these clean thin smiling men

recite and chant    then listen intently    applaud ours

they come to dispel dead weight

         starched sterile strips of living

these poems made of the guts of those who 

   took dignity     took limbs     took trust

  took away from unknown strangers

            took away from those they loved 

those who loved them 

yes    some have visions of those

they murdered     raped      savaged     soiled

and we sit in the rec room

try to paint faces on the smooth walls   

the blank benches

word-seed fertilizing minutes    hours   months   the years

ground out in this prison

we dissect     give voice to the karma of crime

embrace the bearers of guns of knives

who carry no horns     no jagged finger nails

        no scars running from ear to neck

             no gaping mouths      no hunched backs

       no foul breath swamping our noses

and they sit in rows and laugh 

shout “bua!” when the mood rises 

    and the poetry  lifts 

and the poet entranced     entrances  

some few dare dream beyond this time

      make instead of break

and we wonder at the world tribunal 

the judges and the victims

   who chorus  a relentless refrain

its necessary sentence of retribution and waste

we wonder at  this bringing evil and good 

to the same table

      this yoking of pain to the present 

this wheel strapping us to nothing and madness

  driving the hope of forgiveness    of erasure   

of release

we sit in the stale starched recreation room 

and for an hour recreate this world 

make it a place to live well

and when we leave i am able to ask these marauders  

 these violators:

“you who kill time for the crimes you committed

can you become the dandelions you wish to be     

in this desert?

can you now know yourselves and love others?

can you prove yourselves wrong?

can you prove yourselves right?