by Derick Burleson

    The Kinyarwandan word which means both yesterday and tomorrow

    World resolves itself

    in crowded crane's

    liquid eye， in the cry

    of ibis， eye that's gazed

    on anyone who's ever walked

    this path beneath acacias， through

    coffee fields to the river

    and back again carrying water or fish.

    Cry that cries the morning news.

    Come， let's walk this path

    together， empty handed， carrying

    nothing back but a few words

    of a language powerful

    enough to turn the river

    back on itself， to fill the river

    with bloated corpses¹.

    One day I swam far

    into Lake Kivu， a thousand

    feet of clear water below

    and nothing above except sun.

    My body suspended on

    surface tension， the line

    between air and thicker air，

    sun the point from which

    the water swung. Yesterday

    I swam. Now I'm back home.

    Tomorrow Remera will swim

    out into that same lake， almost

    across the border， gut² shot，

    gasping³， almost there， almost. . . .

    Crowned crane wears

    a slash⁴ of crimson⁵ at the throat.

    Beneath its golden crest⁶， beneath

    its liquid eye， the path winds

    through coffee fields

    to the river and back again.

    Fathom⁷ yourself in exile.

    In every gurgle of each

    morning's pot of coffee

    you hear your brother's last

    breath. You wake in a forest.

    You've been shot. Get up，

    stagger down the path

    to the river full of corpses.

    In its ancient terrible cry

    （fling your body in）

    ibis pronounces how

    beginning becomes the end.

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