Scissors And The Iron At Work All Night Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

My mom made tablemats,
cutting sisal to make
mats gor people to put
plates of food when we
had non. Braiding grass
and sisal, the rope grows
longer and longer. Then
scissors come in to make
neat.

I woke up to the click of
scissors and slept to their
lullaby. The sound of the
iron on a dress to be worn
tomorrow in Sunday school
leaves me warm where it
renders me full for the love
she gave.

Pouring one's soul into the
depth of us children she did.
The testimony stands fiercely
unafraid to say it happened.

When I have done my giving, will
it remain standing, with scissors
and an iron at the alter of love?

Will the testimony sing love and
bite the ears of others lovingly
and say this is how it is done?
Tough questions these that I lay
at the alter of time.