Member Poem

when my heritage
  is ground to powder
shaken
  into status cocktails
packed
  into capsules of medicinal myth

when my land’s reserve
  is smuggled over borders
our horn
  of plenty
cheapened
  like a manufactured toy

when a wild beast
  hitches in the bush
its life-blood
  sunsetting the dust
a wire loop
  clenching the Zebra Moon

when a rhino
  lies crumpled on its sternum
that bulky god
  a gawping mess of meat
storm rain
  washing away what was a face

I don’t cry

this is my salt, my force, my game
  these are my veins
these are my animals
  this is my country, my nature, my pride

if I were to cry
 I would forsake my name
and these creatures neither speak  nor cry

my eyes are dry as blades

my mother named me well