We were in Mozambique together.
What was Mozambique?
Nothing you want to hear about.
Just a dot after weeks of sand every way you turned, no matter how many prints you left in the parched, firm dirt.
It crumbles in your toes, like packed, dry snow, like playgrounds at the city park.
But the greasy cake of blood and sand doesn't melt in your fingers.
We were in Mozambique together.
Where the screams weren't in my head.
Where the pleas of what I can only assume was sand jock for
"please
not my daughter"
went unmet.
Where an angry, indifferent, or nonexistant god was to judge us.
The hands of your mouthpieces.
We were in Mozambique together.
Only, now Mozambique is together in us.
A town, a slaughter, a sin,
that never happened
Not every nightmare
Not every patriotic macho recruitment commercial
Not every day whenever the house is still.
There was no Mozambique.
We made sure of that.
