Genocide

someday you will look at your arms
and see that they are not my arms
you will follow the trail of skin down
past brown wrists and pale palms
you will see your fingers
digging the open air like roots
and I will wonder

when you pick up a spade
and begin to turn the earth
what to speak of soil
that is bruised and black with blood,
the loose limbs of your sisters
folded in unanswered prayer

someday you will look at your eyes
and see that they are not my eyes
but are the eyes of the dead
you will dig into the iris,
salt springing from dry ducts
you will wonder

as your vision blurs
who the brown belongs to
who among you lives