Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****,
but I’m alive,


which many can’t say after Rwanda.

“In their greatest hour of need, the world failed the people of Rwanda.”
- Kofi Annan

I have never desired to step  inside  
a mass grave, but the  white marble top  
covering  a  piece  of  the ground like
a  band-aid  on  a     wound    silently
invites me in with an open  staircase.  
The    closer    I    move     toward the
entrance, the more  I am reminded of
hate. The  hate lingers on the  ground
around the grave, humming  a  ballad  
reserved  for  attempted  extinction.  
Machetes,  guns,  and  a­xes  were the  
instruments   in   the    orchestra  that
played the tune of death on this piece
of land.  The screams   of children,    
gunshots      piercing      flesh,    ­bone
breaking    under   blunt force. I enter  
the grave not  knowing what  to  feel.    
My  heart  beats      consciously as  
I control the  flow  of air   in  and  
out of my body,      trying to play    life’s
song   amid the   loud lingering  hum 
 of    hate   that  has   seeped from  the 
 ground above.  The  light   that enters
does   not     brighten    my   feelings;   
 it     only    reveals   the  moments  of
death on the walls which  are shelved
with  skulls,  some with bullet  holes,  
some   with fractures from machetes. 
I    move  through the   thin   corridor    
fearful     of    making   eye    contact 
with the    skulls     for  I do not want to    
stare    into    the     empty     eye  sockets  
to see     individual     death.   Femurs  and  
humeri    lay like  *****  clothes    thrown
into the  corner of a room.  No longer do
they represent one  human. Outside the
light  warms   my   skin   and   directs     my    heart    to    beat  unconsciously,  
my   breath   to   rise  and  fall   in unison
with  my steps. It   shines  upon   a   new  
tune   being     played.   Children  laughing,  
mothers yelling,  hymns being  sung. It  
spotlights   a  beauty of humanity:
Reconciliation.