Blood and Water by Elizabeth Muchemwa (Zimbabwe)

He washes his hands in streams she has made

Rivers flowing beneath her eyes have

salted the land with the acrid taste of her

hate

wells have risen to pool within her

catching the cries that would speak her

hurt

He washes his hands in streams she has made

She dreams sonic dreams with high decibels to end tyranny

with a speak to raise armies and wage wars

He washes his hands in streams she has made

ignoring the pleas of a maiden body slain

in her shame exposed against her will

half drawn clothes

untidy bundles of blood

laid to waste for a rush

She has made rivers and lakes bitter with the salt of her tears

beneath her breast a molten hold burnishes the light she once had

into a golden strong finish

for those that have laid her to waste

This is for the mother

who has stitched another morsel

into one dish of edible corn for our daily bread

Her who has copied the hands of the creator

and pasted onto the drawing board a new piece  to the picture

so that girls everywhere can smile

She is the surgeon who has carried a knife to battles

to cut open wounds and piece them to their proper places back,

them skins and flesh scurrying to obey her command

she has done so

she has carried life so

She has melded pen and paper to tell a story

not  worrying

whether the caves within her bring forth life or death

life or death   life or death

the ringing bells toll and call all humankind to rest

but   she does not stop taking  life from death

life from death  life from death

building bricks upon bricks

stitching together another life in a war zone.

THERE WAS ONCE SOMETHING SPECIAL HERE

You can tell by the shape of the pieces

The trailing blood and the aura of warmth

That there was once a heart here

And the winds of memory floating by

Still fan the flame that raged in it

You can gauge from the markings on the walls

The piercing font and the scrambled letters

That a name was etched by cupid’s arrow

And the sunset glow of the text

Still hints of a golden history

You can sense from the tremble of the chambers

The undying pulse and the scent of a beloved

That the heart once danced to a dreamer’s beat

And the hollow ring of wedding bells

Still haunts what could have been

You can taste in the beads of water

The pouring rain and the salty puddles

That tears are words the heart can’t express

And the cloud that sheds them

Still leaves “goodbye” behind

You can see in the drag of finger prints

The gathering mass and the mist of sweat

That someone is slowly collecting the pieces

But the feeling that used to live here

Still hides in the shadows of the heart

Tom won 1,000 USD, an autographed copy of Wheels by Kwame Dawes and a trip to the Storymoja Festival in Nairobi.