Mr. Jackson, a poem by Rethabile Masilo
Silences fill the air. The silence of a jobless face. That of wings as a bird flies off with a darner in its beak, and in the mind's eye the darner flees. Things that are silent require colour, to feel and be seen again; the sound an artist sees with her hands. On this tarred road that feeds the city of Gary, Indiana, only burnt-out cars remain of the riot for freedoms (that are now coming). A silence holds the street with an afro and its white teeth of dissidence or innocence, depending on which side one is. A woman hurries home with colours of a hoopoe in a bag. Red and dark green stalks sticking in the heat. Sacks of potatoes and carrots at our feet. We dance, never knowing what it is they seek who, every time we gather, come to disperse us, the grand silence being of course the first time any body was able to walk in reverse. �from "Things that are silent", Pindrop Press , 2012 Michael Jackson
