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 corpses.

　　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， gut shot，

　　gasping， almost there， almost. . . .

　　Crowned crane wears

　　a slash of crimson at the throat.

　　Beneath its golden crest， beneath

　　its liquid eye， the path winds

　　through coffee fields

　　to the river and back again.

　　Fathom 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.

　　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 corpses.

　　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， gut shot，

　　gasping， almost there， almost. . . .

　　Crowned crane wears

　　a slash of crimson at the throat.

　　Beneath its golden crest， beneath

　　its liquid eye， the path winds

　　through coffee fields

　　to the river and back again.

　　Fathom 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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