the daughter asked,
“What happened to them?’
the father answered,
“they were killed by Africans from another tribe”
the daughter replied,
“oh.”
they said that they had been waiting
since Byumba…
the reed mat is partially burned
from flames stomped out yet raging
it conceals everything and nothing
displaying the stilled feet of crossed legs
that could belong to someone who loved
to lay in the grass and look up at the sky.
they said that they had been waiting
since Cyangugu…
the head rests on red, lumpy clay
one hand covers the face
shielding it from the sun
that cannot be seen or felt.
they said that they had been waiting
since Butare…
the mouth hangs open
the way a baby brother’s would
while he naps during the late afternoon
of a hot and humid summer day
his spirit renewed when he awakens
to again go outside to play.
they said that they had been waiting
since Kibungo…
they were not present
at their colonial coronation
centuries ago
they may not have smiled
and said thank you
or felt honored.
they said that they had been waiting
since Kigali…
the blood of the children
is drying on the crown
that they may or may not
have believed was theirs
but never cared to wear
as they ran laughing
through the green tea fields.
The Muse Minefield 