Gently 
The fingers of her words
Touched my heart
And she caressed 
My own memories
I fought to displace

This woman
Is a woman of many women
Who has been gang raped
By the viciousness
Of her country
And it’s men

Oh, Africa, I gaze
At pictures of your leisurely sunsets
And tall giraffe
You are exotic in beauty
From your women’s stunning faces
To the animals you shelter

 Do you hide your eyes
At the atrocities 
With these pictures
Of serenity
How can you look away
From this terror day by day

These women 
Cast from homes and towns
Treated as unclean
Buried their children
That tried to protect them
As their husbands fled

She
Honarata, Maria, 
Esperance, Seraphine
And more
Reached out touching my heart
With their heroism of survival

Touching my own memories
Touching my psyche
Touching my soul
Beckoned me write them
In further plea
For the sightless to see

We are sisters
We hold souls
We hold hands
We hold our children
We hug
Across states and countries

Do you see them, too
No matter how far
Or color of skin
Will you hold a hand?
For your sister
What would you give?

(My tribute to “Postcards from the Edge” 
February edition of ‘O the Oprah Magazine”)