While On Chicago Ave.

by Erika-Janea

I wonder if Rwanda smells
like bread instead of garbage pails
that line the streets where children sleep
dreaming of nthochi crumbs and meat
between thin breaths of air so stale.

Their bones are weak, their figures frail
clinging to hope as death prevails,
while zephyrs blow, their bellies creak
because of you.

Their torture hides beneath the veil
Of honest conquest that propels
the demise of children young and meek
now decomposing in the street.
No one is left to tell the tale
Because of you.