-- Dove.

(a poem)

hello, friend. today’s feature is a poem i wrote a while back, partially inspired by the film Janet Planet (Annie Baker, 2024), though it does not have an accompanying essay.

however, there is an announcement i’d like to make: i am opening a bookstore, Muscle & Bone Literary. it will run fully online, as a curated sanctuary of new and second-hand books, each carefully selected with immense thought and deliberation put into it. i need financial assistance in bringing this dream to life, while i engage with angel investors and funding schemes to see what my options are. this level of ask is nerve-wracking, and i feel extremely vulnerable. but this matters deeply to me, i know that my reading community would do justice to this project.

if you have any books that you’d love to see find a new home, and you live in South Africa (or are willing to ship here), please send me an email at muscleandbonehome@gmail.com. the books must be in good condition; gentle dog-ears and margin annotations are fine, but pages cannot be torn, and the cover cannot be dirty, stained or drawn over. table-top decorations, recipe books and dictionaries published before 2017 cannot be accepted, unfortunately.

please follow this link if you’d like to donate or read more about the business.

alright, enjoy the poem :)

---

‘Janet Planet’, dir. Annie Baker (2024)

-- Dove.

I think I’m existing incorrectly. Always asking the wrong questions, the ones that make people nervous. Saying things that disturb the sense of politeness that comes from performing conversations instead of being in them, in the intimacy of it all. I cannot remember the last time my words didn’t imply that nuance is the centre of their being, that morbid curiosity is the reason they come out of my mouth. I think I’m existing incorrectly. Each morning, it feels as though I expect my left hand to do more because the right one is battling the throes of fear with faith. Delusional, some would call me; living in an echo chamber, others might add. That’s where my right hand can be found, not performing nearly as sharply as yours, as my neighbours, as the girl I went to school with. I think I’m existing incorrectly. Even the way I ask for help feels helpless. I know someone can see me reaching, yet I never seem to say the appropriate thing; the words that would tug at heartstrings enough to care. But I let it go because they are human, and you are human, and we are humans, but I feel human in a way that isn’t correct and should therefore deal with it. I don’t mean to suffer, except when my faith is so large and ridiculous, but the weight of that cloak is unavoidable. I need to struggle correctly first, then they’ll pity me. I need to be different for everyone I meet; then they’ll connect with me. I need to be less intimidating, softer, like a dove. I need to be a dove and exist imperviously. I need to come out for someone else’s ceremony, as a dove should, with my right hand this time.

yours,

Thando. x