People think I'm a captor
but what do people know?

They see the sickle and machete in my hand
but don’t we all carry them?
yet they speak of things they cannot name

Fewer walk these roads today—
the curfew has locked the streets in dread
and courage seems a dying thing

They whisper of the missing—
white tourists gone,
and their guards lost
but my tools belong to the soil

They say I am to blame
but look—my hands are clean,
and I’ve never taken what isn’t mine

How can I feed on only what grows
in my small garden behind my...