by vangile gantsho
there is a spider on my hand red tiny spider many tiny spiders on my hand on my arm all over my body i enter the water to wash them away without frightening them they do not leave my skin
the stories of great men are found in books and painted on walls, turned into objects and handed down from children to countries. the women are myths. urban legends whispered through umbilical cords. and we know all about breath and the granted taken of air. there is a place in the eastern cape called a hole in the wall. i think the wind was tired of people hearing about her without something to touch.
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