I. To Those Who Died

If I had a glass to raise
I'd pour champagne on
Mass graves,
Shelves of skeletons,
Skulls in single layers filling
Church basements,
And soil in the coutryside
Where the burial sites
Have not yet been
Unearthed.

I'd give bubbly to the bones
Of those who died
Before their first taste.

To those who died,
Because they owned ten cows or more
And had milk with their meals
While neighbors drank water.

To those who died,
Because they didn't have enough
Banana wine
For bribes
To save their lives.

To those who died,
Because they didn't have enough
Time to hide.
Because they hadn't lied
About their father's tribe.

To those who died,
Because they wouldn't confide
Where their killers could find
Cockroaches on that hillside,
Neighbors who'd run before dawn,
Their cattle, grazing in hiding, and
Where their children had gone.

To those who died, for being
The taller man
The longer nose
The leaner build
The lighter skin,
The more beautiful women.

I'd toast to those who died.



II. To Those Who Survived

If I had a glass to raise
Of champagne,
I'd toast to those
Sitting around this table
Sixteen years later.
"Here's to being alive!"

A toast to those who survived.

Old age in the cities
Vanished
In the beginning.
Stopped for proof of identity
Shot along the roads
Leading from the country.
And the young ones?

Left to flee.

Old age in the villages
Cut down slowly
By machete
Carving women into widows.
And the young ones?

Run past piled bodies.

Old age on the hillsides
Hides under banana leaves
Waiting to run at night
Dying during daylight
From hunger, thirst, and fear
For the young ones?

Wondering when old age disappears.

Leaning over your desk, staring at calculus
I learned to solve at sixteen.

I’ll direct you to the nearest solution-
You have one hour left to reach, but
Have gotten too lost to see-
If you stop to ask me.

But you won’t, so
I won’t wait.
You don’t, and
I say nothing.

Kissing slightly,
Along your t-shirt’s edge, I leave
My mouth shut
And your neck wet.

Sheets of computer paper and
Snapped mechanical pencil tips
Sprinkled with eraser bits,
Cover the floor around your feet.

You punch your calculator keys while beneath your desk
I'm on my knees.

A man of twenty
Looks much younger
Waiting at the southside bus station in a
Suit and sneakers,
Hat strings
Dangling into his collar,
Anxious with his hands idle.

A man holding my bags and waist
On a subway train that
Shakes our bodies closer
Looks his age and older,
Holding us still.

The first week of the new year was
Sleeping in past two,
Sleeping in my birthday suit,
        in my boyfriend's bed,
        in his childhood room.

My grandmother's hands, dressed in
Sterling silver bands
And stacked bangles
Making music
When she salts
Slices of ham

I. Our First Time

We road tripped to new lives - together
Unsteady
On the highway
In the high winds
Whinneying
Space between
Windows and their
Worn seals,
Keeping our silence
Secret


II. Talk About Religion

This Athiest said
True love
IS his God;
Finally
I know
I don't believe in it.


III. Studio Apartment

On Lia Jade's
Slick hardwood kitchen
Floor, in the dark,
I think more than I write
And put the notebook down
For a one-woman sit-in
On my first night in Boston.