Here is an old poem from the last time I was in Southern Africa and I was trying to reconcile my love for this place and people with deep confusion about how I was inherently connected to the source of the poverty problem.
The sins of our past are etched on my face;
in the crimson- stained clear- through your bones.
Crumpled grandfathers live in my lips -breezy mourning-
flicking angles, our lust; starkly cold.
Displaced! Drives an echo of sisters so pillaged;
bodies splayed over fields like stones.
Quiet Thud! Singing gentle;
black back smooth,
still as amber;
faded insults reside in my toes.
Repose lost in the vestige of white fleshy fingers;
your hope: my need,
slows its flow.