It was night and we were drinking in the garden by the church.
I looked at my friend and asked him,
– “Di, are you always aware that you’re black?”
– “No, not really. Sometimes I think about it, if someone is weird with me in a bar, or on the street … people looking at you funny, know what I mean”?
– “Then I think, is this because I’m black?
But you don’t know.
It can be for so many reasons
Yeah; but I think about it.”
The girl stood in front of the car screaming:
There was a thud,
and then nothing.
Her friend stared
as she shouted at the driver:
“Real nice M’am! Really, really nice!”
I looked behind me, to the cat in the road.
It was jumping and somersaulting spasmodically
In total silence
pirouetting in the air,
almost never touching the tarmac,
an acrobat of pain.
Not at all what you expect from a cat that was run over.
But there he was,
Coiling and uncoiling at lunchtime.
Miguel Caldas was born in Mozambique in 1972, but resides in Lisboa, Portugal, where he lives with his wife, daughter and a turtle.