AN: We must do something to stop this terrible genocide. Please, find a way to help if you can.

A little girl –

black curls

cinnamon lips

limbs splayed like a doll's

the same age as my sister –

crowns the pile of entwined bodies,

strewn together like autumn leaves.

They lie sleeping

but have no sugar-plum dreams

for sun-warmed machetes

have already bestowed

the kiss of Death.

Old, young, male, female –

Death does not discriminate

like we do.

Dried streams of blood

decorate the scarred earth

like party favors.

African sun and flies

devour their waiting flesh –

soft and unprotected.

Hands, frozen in time,

reach out


for our help.

But we turn a blind eye,

look the other way,

slamming the gate

in their faces:

a cold lesson in human compassion.

Who are they to turn to us?

They, who do not have our alabaster skin

and live far from our paved streets

and steel buildings.

We see these images

flash across the telly,

entranced by the pretty colors

of blood and suffering.

We shed a tear for show,

then take another bite

of our turkey dinner.

After all, there are more important

things to worry about, like

who will win American Idol.