Fields of litter

We drove past fields of litter and houses built from tin. Intestines sold at the street corner, a river dammed in dirt. And I feared that it would stick to me, drag me down like muddy soil, like strife. That my skin might darken in the sun, my features wither, my beauty gone. This is what I felt as we drove by, it’s what they’ll see when they look at me. They’ll see fields of litter in my skin, in my mother, in our accents.

– Lethokuhle Msimang

• Msimang is a poet and prose writer currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing at Rhodes University