by Derick Burleson

The Kinyarwandan word which means both yesterday and tomorrow

World resolves itselfin crowded crane’s liquid eye， in the cryof ibis， eye that’s gazedon anyone who’s ever walkedthis path beneath acacias，throughcoffee fields to the riverand back again carrying water or fish.

Cry that cries the morning news.

Come， let’s walk this pathtogether， empty handed， carryingnothing back but a few wordsof a language powerfulenough to turn the riverback on itself， to fill the riverwith bloated corpses.

One day I swam farinto Lake Kivu， a thousandfeet of clear water belowand nothing above except sun.

My body suspended onsurface tension， the linebetween air and thicker air，sun the point from whichthe water swung.

YesterdayI swam. Now I’m back home.Tomorrow Remera will swimout into that same lake， almostacross the border， gut shot，gasping， almost there， almost. . . .

Crowned crane wearsa slash of crimson at the throat.Beneath its golden crest， beneathits liquid eye， the path windsthrough coffee fieldsto the river and back again.

Fathom yourself in exile.

In every gurgle of eachmorning’s pot of coffeeyou hear your brother’s lastbreath. You wake in a forest.You’ve been shot. Get up，stagger down the pathto the river full of corpses.

In its ancient terrible cry(fling your body in)ibis pronounces howbeginning becomes the end.