(2024)

The Lord’s Resistance Army war has been over for 17
years but you cannot surrender to sleep. You still hear it:

ratatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatata
boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!

You carried those haunting sounds of Kony’s terror
to America. You still rage at his lofty promises:

I am your Jesus
taking up arms to save
northern Uganda from Museveni’s tyranny.

Remember: You believed him. After all, his name is Acoli
for help. You put your hope in his hands, hands that reached

for AK47s, AK47s that were then pressed to every forehead
‘til you denounced your kin and hailed him the almighty.

Remember: You turned to Museveni, the new emperor
ordained by the West to bestow fundamental change to

your shithole country.
Clinton swore Museveni was
among Africa’s new breed of leaders.

Remember: The American taxpayers opened their purse
generously, hastily. The helicopters ran to work – growling

over northern Uganda for anything that resembled Kony
– that meant you, your homes, your land, your tired breath.

That also meant Kony’s guitar, his Kaunda suits, his slave
wives, his cooking pots, his abductees, but somehow not him.

Your body learned to screen
for pulsations: the roar of walls
before it fell, the click of padlocks on lips.

Remember: You mastered the scent of bodies newly slain,
homes freshly arsoned – the guilty party? Both men waved

bloody hands. You were a millipede coiled under
a rumbling rock. Today, when the fridge suddenly moans,

your eyes flick open. When an insomniac pigeon coos
on your window, your ears perk like a dog ready to shield.

When a gun muzzles
a Black body in your America,
you die some more. Your mere existence

is a felony. Keeping vigil doesn’t make you immune to terrors
of the past or hauntings of the now, but still sleep stays away.