Democratic Republic of the Congo: regarding current events

Say Goodbye

Fingers touching
ringing
tasting of salt-sweat
and dust.
Fingers touch
and feel
this life is real;
this is the world.

A human chain
across the earth
extending beyond flesh--
the dirt on my feet--
that carries me over
deserts.
Walking on fire.
Walking over grassy fields
exposed
as massive graves.

Children lie below me
beautiful, black, babies,
innocent and trusting
reach to me with severed
limbs
buried under shallow dust--
shadows of rust--
like etches of eyes and faces
different races
racing to secure
something more
(machetes and gore).

I am helpless
beaten to the floor.
They step on my back
pull my arms
and bind me with
wire,
cutting like fire.
I
feel
wounded.


Words

These are some words
for the weeping fathers
and mothers
whose hearts have been
pierced.
Flesh of flesh
and blood of blood,
taken by harmful hands:
thirsty,
greedy,
blinded by scales,
blinded by rage,
blinded by affliction--
chemical and human.

These are some words
for those who
call on gravity
to pull their children
back from the grave of
captivity,
who cry to God to
make their daughters safe
from rape
and bitter beatings,
who cry to God to
keep their sons free
from mental manipulation
their eyes from devastation.

These are some words
for all who say
in the dead of night
"come home"
--through tears and
tortured dreams--
"come home"
--as morning pours
like streaming drops--
"come home"
as years choke by
like heaving sobs.

These are some words.


Stain

They say it's
magic oil
that they
slick into my skin:
across my heart
--to stop from feeling,
across my forehead
--to stop from thinking,
across my back
--to stop from resisting,
across my feet
--to stop from running.
Magic oil,
they say,
will make me forget
my family,
embrace abuse,
turn away and
kill or be killed.
This magic oil
will sooth me
into this life,
anoint me from the weakness of my
child's stomach.
This magic oil
didn't
work.
Because I wiped it straight off.