in the Nigerian field

i did not bend to gather rice

or any crop

but those who did

were in front of me

and behind and to each side,

and they were assembled in the Nigerian field

to have their throats slit,

below their ears and noses,

and buzzing flies soon came when they

heard about the banquet of oozing liquid.

i did not hear the dead singing,

(it was too far away)

but i could cross the bridge

before the bodies disappeared,

to witness the terror in each voice

still farming the hard soil.

warm drops of sweat 

and dark eyes finally at rest,

but not at peace.

the village women who saw this scene are no longer smiling,

sweet music on their tongues like grief heavy at a child's funeral.

i can not sing, but played a three-stringed molo with no color

in my face, beginning each note as though it were my last.

i did not touch the ground.