The Century Turns
Amphibious we swim
some of the time,
emerge sticky, dun colored
from the murk of our ancestry.
You are too much mine.
Erased by foreign lands,
for us there is no tomorrow,
no promise of children.
Your suit hangs,
shoes polished to the sonance
of Paris streets.
Your country, Congo,
is left behind.
At night,
the distant drip
of blood
seeps behind our walls.
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