Portraits from the series Faces and Phases by South African artist Zanele Muholi.

I kiss your chest
the dead press back
against my lips

some are yours
some are mine

one raised white babies
one killed babies like us

one went under
for a routine operation
woke with linoleum flat
to her temple

there is no soft way
to discuss this

they want to wipe
the world of us

call us radicals
when we say so

we have other parts
that can bear life
our stomachs
fingers
bile and teeth

voice boxes
taut as a clothesline

siren
blood sniffing

I’m not thinking of them
even though they’re watching

I am focused
on the tufts of brown hair
budding
from the place
where your ribs and bicep meet

mossy
where your thighs sprint
toward each other

when they see us
I hope they are incredulous
salivating
tormented
as I am
by your very softness

I hope they know
in their bones
we are older than walls
even now
outliving the carnage
of they’ve laid for us

let’s be the thing
that can’t be stolen
no matter how many times
they take it

the thing
that lives in awe
of itself