This I Knead

There’s a Lesbian at my table. She sits adjacent to me and eats the food I make. She chews well enough –   with her mouth closed. She doesn’t swallow too loudly, Or slurp her drink. This Lesbian at my table bides her time by calling me “Mme” , and seduces me with offerings: “ Nka lo siela tee?” and “Ke tswa go reka kuku e e sukitshana.” I suppose she has learned well – she can slip herself past thirsty eyes and unchaste ears. I found the Lesbian at my table where I had left my beloved child. She seems to have consumed her like a hungered bird – waited too long through a rainy night and awakened to find no morsels creeping along the moistened earth. When I sat down for our evening meal I thought I saw the tassels of booties I had knitted while swollen like a mango at summer’s end. They were yellow like the sun whose over affectionate kisses had me too ripe to touch and unforgivingly tender.  They slid between h...