Hottentot Venus – Sarah Baartman 

“Nature is a temple, where the living pillars sometimes utter indistinguishable words. 

Man passes through these forests of symbols which regard him with familiar looks.”

Baudelaire – CORRESPONDENCE

There is a leash plagued with fancy, enough to dog a negro round the continent.

this one comes to England of her own naked will—

& did so, bent like a cartwheel, crawling half the journey.

 body, wrecked by the weight of steatopygia. 

the excess suddenness of fat, collecting on the heap of day that unfolds in gallops.

a trader bargains for custody, dangles a large bag of coins at her,

& she inks a lifetime signature on his contract: to display the meat of her skin in stables.

a show-horse in cage, leaping at the barking orders of her animal trainer.

the caesura of her feet, dragging a line on stage till it breaks, mid-tempo.

she thumps at her chest with the rustic hit of a female bushman, 

doing the savage dance of Africa.

the audience are invited to touch, but from a distance.

as though, the thin line between reality and performance is consent enough.

there is a state of mind in art that takes pleasure in being moved—

in ways that makes one complicit to humiliation, mistaking her punishment for pleasure.

I, too am in the theatre of my own objectification, fondled into rage,

being touched by the same white hands, tape-measuring my passport

in the way they reached for the privacy of Sarah Baartman’s bosom,

till she grabbed a Briton by the balls 

& stormed out naked on the street that covered her in dark umbra.

the men sneak her body to distance towns, selling out shows & STI the 18th century style.

once she goes down on all four, the queens take turns in making a cartwheel of her back.

they rode her to death, smoke belting out from her fallen lungs.

in the black quiet of night, she is sold in shrouds to sculptors

who limes her in liquid resin, cast her frame in bronze 

& placed it in a museum for the highest bidder.

aren’t you in shock like me, dear reader, 

that even in death, an image still returns more money than the country’s revenue

& do it, fatigued & breathless still.

the government sends back her remains to Cape Town, on Mandela’s demand.

I am in negotiation of my own body’s return to my homeland.

what is the cost value of my immigrant stay here say, after tax?

what lunatics me, if not this literature that bends my back in reverse sportsmanship.

I refuse on smoke & whiskey to live past this ache.

in a dream, clay pours on the edge of my lying body, dried on the spot

& I stood up to use—leaving a monument for the ethereal world.

my presence, hung there in display like an over-worn jacket.

sand stacked like cuboid, resting on both of my breasts.

I wonder if I’m inciting yet another metaphor for being trespassed without consent, 

considering my nakedness here.

a girl passes by and disregards me with unfamiliar hatred:

you/ actor by pretense. you/ animal in a cage, exposing yourself, being touched.