Impressions Made In A Box Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

Being boxed for this that was once love,
I raise my hand and swear it was not what
the world thought it was.

It is not me who married him, but you,
a lawyer says, trying to give me courage.
Speak up and answer for he says you changed
after you got a higher qualification than him.

This argument made on a paper and read to me
says I made a bad choice that does not need
dissecting. The judge looks at me, he says
'counsel, ' must explain.

Here is a man, who was doing his abcs as
if he was not married, and a woman who was
doing her abcs as if she had not read that
marriage in community of property is that.

I stand amazed, like in a song, for I never
knew that standing in a box swearing was a
part of the deal. Breezing into this like
a wind, I had wondered if the sun did set
at all. The dreams I had lengthened the days
which seemed so short in the hands of love.

Now I wished seconds were milliseconds, so
I could get out of this box and end it all,
for it had not worked out. The box I stood
in then was not made of wood, but of flakes
of dreams flying all over the place.

Could it be that there were people who
knew the future? Those signs that signaled
loud and had nobody listening to their bangs.
Now I see better with these impressions made
with my hand swearing that I am who I am and
do solemnly swear that truth resides in me.

Now I am this self that can say it without
'ifs, ' but just stare and let my eyes paint
what a cold, place this box is and that the
authority it gives me to make a decision is
well received, for this is a story that ends
itself.