The Congo women grab their skirts;
they run and hide. They are found out.
Their bodies reel within the tide of vicious
armies, lout-faced boys who never had
a chance to sprout as honored men;
who do not know what they’re about.
They rape and rape and rape again.
The Congo women sway with pride.
Their precious bodies and their lives now
share a sisterhood of shame that is
not theirs. Hundreds of thousands,
none is spared this dark undoing,
cast aside like tattered garments
on a tattered countryside.
The Congo women are our pride.
We own a portion of the shame. Mother,
daughter, sister, bride, how I wish
to know your name, receive the blessing
of your eyes. And to your staggered heart,
my wooing: “Don’t drop out. Your soul
pursue you through your darkest time.
There is a way all hearts that
wake within the world are going.”
like all the rest, who are complicit in
this game beyond our knowing.