from the poem cycle Anatomy
The wrist, the right one,
is a wrench.
The wrist, not the left, is rust.
It is red metal amongst stone.
It is brittle tin. It is clanking iron.
The wrist is unsettled.
It does not join or turn or fold or meet.
It grinds, stone against stone, mid-day
sunlight against old iron.
Cold night against cold stars.
It is a sharp moon. A blunt moon.
Made blunt on the blade of a hill.
The wrist, my wrist, my right,
is all that holds me up.
Keeps me perpendicular
to the black grave.
Kobus Moolman is an award-winning South African poet and playwright. He teaches creative writing at the University of KwaZulu-Natal in Durban.