Poetry by Khayelihle Benghu

THE MOON NEEDS NO VISA 

The moon arrives with neither seal nor stamp,
Its silver crossing entered nowhere twice.
It leans above the checkpoints and the ports,
Above the roofs that answer it by name.
It knows the tents, the towers and the farms,
The sleeper turning toward a distant home,
The fisher casting hope upon the tide,
The nurse who walks before the streets awake.
No embassy has claimed its faithful light;
No border guard has searched its quiet face.
It spends itself on every waiting hand,
Then gathers darkness gently as it leaves.
Perhaps the sky was always teaching this.
What shines for all belongs to none alone.

PASSPORT FOR THE RAIN

The rain learns no anthem on its way to earth,
It gathers clouds from countries without names.
One drop may leave a mountain, cross a sea,
Then bloom as wheat in someone else's field.
It signs no forms at rivers or frontiers,
Nor folds itself to fit a printed stamp.
It knows each roof by how it takes the sound,
Each thirst by how it opens into thanks.
Children lift open mouths beneath the sky;
No tongue can tell what nation touched the cloud.
The oldest journeys leave no trail of dust,
Only green answers rising from the ground.
If rain possessed a passport, it would read:
Citizen of every place that drinks.

Khayelihle Benghu is a South African writer based in Johannesburg, some of her work have appeared in Ake Review, Person of Interest and Metphrastics. She has also authored a collection of poems, The Names We Carry.

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