The Knife: a Villanelle

Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of my life.
We’d given her a little money. We liked her bright boy.
Ethiopia’s beauty cut our hearts with its knife.

The country gave a sudden lurch, trembled with strife.
Her boy sat on our step, whittling a propeller toy,
and Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of my life.

Her beautiful boy. But she was not a wife.
Itifewerk prayed, walked to Kolubi, barefoot and holy.
Her faith cut my heart with its slow knife.

Seventy men shot in our neighborhood, street riven
by soldiers. Nothing could serve as decoy.
Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of her life.

We wanted Addis Ababa to be filled with life
and donkeys and eucalyptus, the usual small boys.
Ethiopia’s beauty cut my heart with its bitter knife.

Where were the husbands? The children? Who could be a wife?
Exhausted and feeble, we saw everything destroyed.
Itifewerk kissed my feet on the worst day of our lives.
Addis Ababa, new flower. Shredded by its own sharp knives.

(C)2003, Margaret Szumowsk