The Bitter Fruit

I am aware of clouds of envy in my heart,

some cesspool of pain,

blood clots of the memories

I have of what was done to me.

I am perfumed of malice,

and I struggle just to shake off

this great weight of hatred

on my body,

in my bones—though

not my Soul: my Spirit

is the only thing sanctified

from all of this clutter, all this

material of lesser things, this quiet

indignation twisted, warped.

It is not my place to say

who is at fault, is it?

And if I could only

forgive myself, perhaps

I could forgive the rest too.


Westville, Durban