Prisoner's Prayer (The Lost)

"What city are we in?"
I dare to ask the boy whom I have never met,
whose posture is as straight as the loaded gun
that clinks—hard—against his skin,
which is darker than the desert night itself.

He walks in step with me, hard military boots echoing
against the barren Earth, so unlike the sound of my bare feet
being worn against the callous ground across the miles.
The fear of 235 of my sisters ricochets throughout the night,
and I realize for the first time that silence is strong enough to strangle,
and as forceful as the ropes wrapped around my wrists.

He turns to me, all ebony skin in sharp contrast against
the undeniable crimson imprinted on hands that are worn with scars.
Tawny eyes betray his startling youth, and a fire lit by human ashes.
They carry the hurt of the ages, a perfect mirror of this wasteland—
as well as a regret so fiercely hot that it almost burns through me.

A moment—his Commander's back is turned toward the horizon;
he snatches my hands and slices savagely, aimlessly in the dark.
The short knife slips against my wrist; my breath catches
as I feel my lifeblood begin to slip from my veins,
as freely as the Ouémé River running in the springtime—
drops stain the sand, finding their way back to Mother Earth.

His voice is a gunshot in the dark as he whispers in broken Arabic,
"Ukhayyatun,"—little sister—"you run, and never look back."
Strong hands shove me into the unknown. I am off, a firework
into the darkness, aligning myself with the land mapped onto my heart,
looking only to Circinus and the call of the antelope to guide my way.

As I flee into the Nigerian midnight, to safety—
leaving behind my sisters and our captors in the forsaken wilderness,
I let myself cry for the unnamed boy from the other side
whom I hope to never cross paths with again in this wretched life.
I send up a prayer to God for mercy upon his soul
as I realize that I am not the only one who needs to be saved.