Wilma Stockenström © Simone Scholtz
Father on son
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]