It is only the sun spitting rays
Just the indefinite flight
of a balloon that let go of its child
It is only squinting, just a nod
Just the chatter of a flock on the wire,
hurried South

It is only the last call
Just glass breaking the light
and a sunflower turning away.
It happens only at the end
of a string, of a season or a life
amid memories or even a dream

That we climb, only in flight,
higher than the clouds
That we travel further than misfortune,
Find the glance of another passenger
On the same bus

It only happens then
in the blink of an eye
for our feet, our will,
our open, our shared
to arrive.

It is only the river leaving the harbour
Just the trading of the sweet for salt
that dyes the scent of the sea
and births you and me into plenty,
the way our stomachs hurt
with laughter.



Benedicte Kusendila debuted Sewn In Red, her first poetry collection, with Rad Publishing in 2017. A romantic poet-activist, she has toured, performed and been published in Europe, South-Africa and the United States. She loves her children, music, and nature.