breathe, children
the paint on these walls will blister and peel soon
tiny, tiny handprints will fade away.

like those who walked here
like those who prayed here
like the gods that refused to listen
when you shed your summer skin,
you will be forgotten.

unholy are you,
maison de dieu.

--

rwanda, your bodies and bodies
your arms and legs and skulls
have become your mountains.

because i call your name
with the fall of my feet
with the pounding of my heart
steadily beating
igihugu kavukire.

you are old and white, now,
when you remember.

--

there are no clocks here
only calluses of heels that have rubbed for too long,
earth stench that claws at my eyes
and i feel.

in my skin, i feel the dirt and dust,
the filmy disease as it turns my lungs to
racking coughs and ashes, ashes.

yet i cannot feel
those who die can die
but let me sleep, oh black!



the young are dead and the old live,
but wait. the old die also.