I woke up in the arms of one I shouldn’t love.
I woke up to the sound of his breath and chest hair like curly iron filings.
His breath swept over my beard like a gentle sea breeze.
When the tips of our toes kissed beneath the crispy white cotton sheets,
My neck hairs stood at attention like meerkats on brown soil.
Could he be the one?
The brush of his bristly beard against my cheek feels like coming home.
His laughter is like a sonata played under a willow tree on a breezy day
In a quiet park.
But I shouldn’t love him.
Because men cannot love men.
Men are incapable of making loving to other men.
Men who love men should be stoned and paraded to show
Shameful faces veiled with blood from their hacked skulls.
Men like me must hide and love behind bricks and mortar.
Men that love men are as good as a corpse in the land where my ancestors trod for
Frank Malaba © 2014