They call it art, like it’s beautiful?

My oncle is known for his handiwork and skill?

He holds the blade in his left hand, working the machete beneath dark skin?

He finds a clean cut between the finger joints, less blood?

That way, he says. Madiba tells me to “mind the blood on the grass”?Our country’s anthem has become bloody screams and men who do not forgive
I was told that when they scream they are asking Imaana for forgiveness “What have they done wrong, Madiba? Is it because they are not beautiful?” “They are Tutsi, they are not Imaana’s children”, he rubs his hands in the grass “Be strong like a lion, young Hutu.” But I don’t’ have skill?and I still vomit when the young girls scream in alleyways, bloody?and mutilated. The dogs are happy, plenty of bodies to eat on the grass.

Madiba teaches me to wipe my blade just so, careful not to dull the edges on the grass

?If you put your hand over their eyes it makes the sleepless nights more forgiving Because you can’t see their eyes loll back when you begin to saw and let the blood Run into the streets. Our country used to be known for beauty,
Now it is known for its atrocities and the skillful

?Natives who wield machetes with rhythm. Rain bleeds into the grass
Trails of ants crawl along the forearms of the dead, as they lay quietly in the grass My father shooe’s the flies from our driveway, blood?

From last night on his neck where he forgot to wash. He flicks his hand with skill Coaxing the insects away from a heap of un-forgiven
Tutsi’s as they lay mangled in our street’s gutters. There is a once-beautiful Woman lying limp, with an infant on her back, un-recognizable beneath the blood
Sometimes I wake in the night thinking my sweat is blood?In the dark I hear the souls of the dead as their feet tread our grass Lawn towards my bedroom. They want to remind me of how beautiful The world was before all this hatred was born. My skin?Chills when the spirits ask me “Has Imaana forgiven?Us? Is this what it feels like to be forgiven?” I skillfully
Remind the spirits that a death accepted with skill?Allows passage to the next life. I dream in blood?

Now that I realize we are the ones who need forgiveness.?

My mother still waters the lawn “mind the blood on the grass”?I compare my skin to Tutsi skin?

Both the same color and shade, perfect for carving. They call it art, like it’s beautiful.