WAR IN THE CONGO
- Jul 3
- 1 min read
By Ada Jenkins
I saw you before you came,
your tiger eye,
bright, pitiless,
your death-belt
loaded jewel loins.
When you broke into me,
constellations wept,
bleeding stars from my womb,
tearing me from myself,
mastered by your universe.
You withdraw,
a shard, a shimmer of self
splintering as you leave me,
hanging loose,
a driftwood shadow.
Added to your collection of corpses,
your kingdom,
your cloud of dominion.
You didn’t notice my soul,
as it fluttered,
delicate; fragile,
exposed.
A demented butterfly struggling,
mutilating itself against your gun,
your weapon.
Wings painted,
in indecipherable patterns
etched nail-deep:
the lost language of war.