Past is Present

I study the fall of the Sudanese,
the merciless killing of fathers and brothers,
the sacred calves butchered and sold.
I think of your mother, the stories you have told,
her secrets revealed to you by an electric third party
twenty years later.

You read about the murder of your grandmother,
the rebel army of your mother,
and the snide remarks from your aunts and uncles.

They blame the pregnant woman holding you,
who helplessly watched as the rebels slaughtered
the pregnant woman who once held her.

Your mother, as she lay on the floor in the hotel
watching her mother’s sinews rip and tear,
hid you, and now the memories,
still pregnant with the truth.

I asked you once,
after your family escaped,
and fled as refugees,
just how you survived in America.

I understand now,
your lack of an answer,
with the pain and honesty
that it is too hard.

I will not hurt you,
I will pour glass after glass,
and never ask you to fill me.

I will build a womb of security,
to hide you, if you’d like.
I will never ask you to come out.