Content warning: This poem contains content that might be disturbing, such as references to death and violence. 

ONE MILLION ONE

Shared with permission from Roger Remera

Refugees flee their homes. Exiles

move back in, thirty-year echoes

of mortar shells rattling windows.

         Down the river bloated bodies bob.

         Little Brother, which body is yours?

Relief planes bomb refugees

with food and a few more perish

under the crashing crates of manna.

         Blowflies buzz, such bliss!

         Dogs grow fatter than ever.

Experts jet in – medical, forensic.

They distribute white suits,

surgical masks and white gloves.

         Refugees are being immunized.

         The water they drink is purified.

Bright yellow bulldozers belch

black clouds of diesel smoke,

digging the bottomless trench.

         All down the river sun-bleached limbs dance.

         Little Brother, which leg is yours?

Exiles smile to be home, harvest

beans the refugees planted.

These new citizens patrol old borders.

         Vultures cluck, such joy!

         Hyenas giggle, fatter than ever.

The dead are aligned, so many

fenceposts, each wrapped and tied

in mats living women weave: dead banana leaves.

         A million eat charity, injected

         with health. The river water is purified.

Pairs of white-suited workers pitch

bodies into the trench, a layer

of wrapped bodies, a layer of lime.

         All down the river torsos swell.

         Little brother, which belly is yours?

Perched at trench edge, separate

abacus beads strung on kilometers of wire,

experts count one million.

         Maggots bloom out of bellies.

         Crows whet beaks on bones, such glee!

Relief workers distribute plastic tents.

Defeated soldiers dance

round fires of food crates.

         An army is being immunized.

         The river it drinks has been purified.

Generals speak. Refugees listen,

held hostage at gunpoint,

planning the counterattack.

         Exiles are being immunized.

         The water they drink is purified.

One million flee for their lives

again. Their army on the run,

refugees would rather die at home.

         Blowflies have never known such love.

         Vultures are fatter than ever.

Grass grows over the airstrip. Grass grows

over the grave. And here come herdsmen

driving cows to pasture, never so green.

         All down the river severed heads sing.

         Little brother, which song is yours?