I stare down at my baby girl,
her brown eyes glistening
against sallow cheeks.

My cracked lips touch her chocolate forehead,
tasting regret
and fear.

I count her ribs.
I am afraid to touch them,
afraid that they will shatter
like dried clay.

A single tear drops from
the sky.
It is the first time it has rained in months.

I hobble outside my rondavel
on skeleton legs
bathing in the same water
that leaks from silver faucets oceans away,
and hides the dirt so visible
on white skin.

My baby’s eyes burn with thirst
but the rain quickly eliminates
the flames.
She sticks her tongue towards the sky
trying to catch the fragile drops
before they hit the crumbling soil.

I laugh hysterically
as the rain beats to the cadence
of gunshots used to kill countrymen,
and the crinkle of money
used to sell young girls into prostitution.

Hopefully the rain will
wash away these faults
so that my daughter will not be buried
in their cracks.