Wilma Stockenström © Simone Scholtz
Father on son
Wilma stockenström
Ought
to love the teenage torso
with
shoulders brown and solid as beams,
his
young flyhalf in striped sweater
and
rugby shorts, the bulge in front,
flesh
of sensuality, seeding
fruit
of the tree of his body.
He
ought to love them, those
blue
candid eyes, replicas,
white
apples swelling into iris, pupil
already
like a sign of conception,
sign
of contamination already,
my
son, my son, in your eyes.
[Tr.
by Johann de Lange]
