Formation

By Bénédicte Kusendila

                                 

He was perfect just not for me.

A volcano, he pitied.

 

You are unstoppable, he felt the need to explain.

I had skipped a class I should not have:

 

A-levels of taciturn hands, tiny this-and-thats...

He had A-level imagined me,

 

as he pahoehoed how my wild rumbling over

over-ambitious adventures had blown my chances

 

of being in a balanced relationship.

The train stiffened to a halt. See you.

 

As soon as the shade of the last coach

had cleared from the station,

 

high noon was blazing hot in my face;

you are unstoppable, the day insisted.

 

A fully seasoned black woman,

hawaiian archipelago in occasional sun,

 

I could triumph how the flashing railway

lights winked, while I blinked quite a few

 

times before I crossed those hoary tracks.

 

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