Love is love, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

When time arrives, and life's alive, after toil
has poured glycerine all over my black face,
and I'm pocket-happier after weekend pay,
with braaivleis that gives off incense, I wonder
what to do with thoughts that bloom in me
from love�s innocence. At night, when I walk
down Kingsway's life of men, smelling of soap,
the same blood that again and again boils,
questions the hope of my name, because centuries
have loved us hardest, the moon-cool and
calm-eyed poise that claims the best in things.
My inner sense is in total control of me.
Street lamps hang fuchsia heads and I hear
in that rhythm always others denying instinct,
I hear it in the church�s roar, inside its deep,
purple core; I hear in my head its brittle voice
asking me to stay away from others, but never
extinguishing my spark, this eagerness of body.
I hear it on mouths of folks on the way to and from
work, and on park benches at lunch when the sun
bears down on us its power, and we drink warm
water and laugh at worn jokes. And I hear it
on my own lips too often when, for a moment,
he touches my body; the time it takes everything
for me to wake up into myself once again.