what
if fanon versed ghandi
on some wind-blown street
as ghandi
lay in a pool of blood
with fanon’s concerned hand
on that bony shoulder
does fanon whisper
‘any means’ are sometimes
needed
as marchers
in determined mood
bear down on fanon
does ghandi, like tutu,
fall on his knees, dramatically, & plead
to his diverse people
not to trample, &
show love?
flesh turns to blood
blood turns to stone
if they met at a roadside diner
would ghandi have broccoli and beans
and fanon bite into steak?
skillfully toting their persuasiveness
(in
sparring conversation)
would fanon emerge
bare chested, staff in hand
would ghandi rush forth
with gunbelt over dhoti?
Frank Meintjies
(this poem is taken from my first book, My Rainbow [2009])
