Jack D. Cowan - Friendship
Oom Niek was ’n blikslaer,
’n fris man met fiks seuns
wat hy tot in die afgrond bederf:
rofstoeiers, boksers, drie reuns
baldadig op & om die werf,
altyd met stukkende kneukels,
’n blouoog of bloedneus
wat hulle dra soos ’n waarmerk,
dié medaljes van die vlees,
vlugtiger as ’n anker op ’n skouervlerk
getatoeëer, tydeliker as ’n moedervlek.
Tant M. ry haar seuns van uitdun
na toernooi, na kompetisie. Sy verbind
hulle vuiste voor ’n geveg begin,
draai gebreekte arms & bene met ’n splint.
stal die trofees uit in ’n vertoonkas.
In die saal, hande op die stuurstang
was hulle vir my soos donderende gode.
Die oudste, ’n swartkop, hou slange
in ’n hok, kobras, mambas, sy kleinode –
die vel van een glip koud & droog
van sy hand in myne, ’n soort akkoord.
Ons kuier dié dag op die plaas,
& Tant M stuur my die boord
in met ’n mandjie om inderhaas
perskes te gaan pluk vir nagereg.
Met die middagson in my nek
sirkel ek ’n kaalgatperskeboom.
Dan, terwyl ek taai vingers aflek,
meteens van agter af: Oom
Niek se twee growwe hande
oor my oë, sy verslaande reuk-
water, sy lyf smoorwarm
styf teen my. Hy steek
’n harige voorarm
uit om die hoë rooiwang-
perskes te pluk, talm
voor hy twee volrondes wat rus
in sy eelterige palm
in my mandjie sit & doelbewus
albei hande om my heupe
& onder my kortbroekrek inglip
& my beet kry. Hy druk hard
teen my kruis, sy lip
teen my oor, & sy hart
wat tamboer. “Ons geheim,”
fluister hy skor & effens geswael,
voor ek oor duwweltjies, leivore
& warm sand terug nael,
die sonbesies se boetpsalm in my ore.
Johann de Lange
***
Uncle Nick
Uncle Nick was a blacksmith,
a sturdy man with robust boys
he spoilt something rotten:
wrestlers, boxers, three hounds
rowdy on & around the yard,
always with bruised knuckles,
a black eye or bloody nose
which they carry like a blason,
these medals of the flesh,
more fleeting than an anchor tattooed
on a shoulderblade, or a birthmark.
Aunt M hauls her sons from heat
to match, to tournament. She bandaged
their fists before a fight,
fixed broken arms & legs with a splint,
& showed off trophies in a display cabinet.
In the saddle, hands on the handle bar
they were like thundering gods to me.
The eldest, a dark-head, kept snakes
in a cage, cobras, mambas, his treasure –
the skin of one slipped cold & dry
from his hand to mine, a shared pleasure.
We visited the farm that day,
& Aunt M sent me to the orchard
in haste with a basket
to pick peaches for dessert.
With the midday sun in my neck
I circled a nectarine tree.
Then, while licking sticky fingers,
suddenly from behind: Uncle
Nick’s two coarse hands
over my eyes, his faded scent,
his body sultry-hot
pressed against mine. He reached
up with a hairy forearm
to pick the blushing
peaches higher up, lingered
before he dropped two fleshy globes
resting in his calloused palm
into my basket & deliberately
placed both hands on my hips
then slipped them into my shorts
& grabbed me there. He pressed hard
against the small of my back, his lips
against my ear, & his heart
drumming. “Our secret,”
he whispered hoarsely & slightly tipsy,
before I ran across devil’s thorns, irrigation furrows
& scalding sand to the house,
she cicadas’s penitential psalm in my ears.
Translated by the poet