The Sometimes Children

find my way
following a slow trail of children
tripping water-carved ravines
in the darkness
their skin glowing like oil
despite the moon

path is dry
maze of empty ditches
would fill like rivers
if the needed rain
that friendly flooding
the pilgrims sleep through
or stand
lifting soaked newsprint umbrellas


two
hundred
children

arriving for bed
students gather and read
some just pretend
as the memories get later past
bedtime
the better the photo
to wrap the numbers
capture faces and army tents
solid even cement beds

i don't speak acholi or lango
or any other tongue
but they know
and i know
the bigger the eyes
the longer the scars
the deeper the pockets
(of those who read these interviews)
prying into people's lives
their saddest story best to sell

three girls select me with their smiles
ask the one who laughs
big and wide

to discover a name which defines-
grace hope
because somehow, she still smiles
takes her seat beside the stranger
tells me who's her crush
what subjects she likes
and what they call
her 'marks' in school
but what i'll not forget
(i thought about today
no reason to remember
driving in the rain)

the world-vision library
balanced on a wooden bench
carving her every word
into a notebook on my knee

three years ago
three years ago she was nine
slept in the bushes flat against the ground
waking in the grass to the sound of footsteps
and fear
before the shelters
when it was the bus park
filled with trucks and vans
and ruts
and rapists

once
she slept at home with her mother
the rebels: the children
that kill and steal
took her and her sister (who was hardly four)

but the words i can't forget
looking into the sweet
brown eyes
of a girl who could easily be my friend
who has my hobbies
and laughs like me
who, in her skin and school uniform
could be any normal girl
she calmly
a little more quietly said

"sometimes"

(my question
a question i hope
to never
ask again)
she told me her duty
as they tried to twist her mind
what she was forced
to do
to the ones who wouldn't work
or walk
(as i said.
its not my problem
not my war
other people; other children
if you want
i'll give

cant be so hard to stop an army
end a war
that never began)

amazed as
i heard my own voice
splintering the mumbled quiet
of fifty children studying
chatting before
they head for sleep
away from home family and
any resemblence of a bed

"did you ever beat anyone to death?"
and she quietly answered
“sometimes”