Stabgrass Even stabgrass is soft in its infancy before it matures into hardened tufts Among barren fields of cracked, Congalese dirt So dry it is impervious to rain And water rivulets flow away Towards the pasture That has mastered staying green Protected by the abundance of its carpet, This pasture is not resilient just fortunate The patches of stabgrass are resilience Absorb moisture, despite the unyielding ground. poor grazing grass, too brittle, The cost of drought worn in its blades Still it sways What if the stabgrass thrived, Was irrigated with more than blood Would it be something else? Spectators marvel at the growth Out of politeness they ignore the scarred earth Chanting “resilience, resilience,” Never really knowing the stab grass’ grief. Tufts of women, alone Each one, in south Kivu As the savannah turns to dust And we, in our hope, Sing hallelujah at each tuft Best we shut up Give them a safe place to close their wounds hoes to loosen the earth Trousers to replace their open skirts Hand guns and cyanide if the soldiers, with their rape and ruin, do come.