Bodies floated in the river like crumpled leaves,
the fall matched their contrast perfectly.
The babies thrown into empty spaces giggled for
a second, before they met the end of a spear.

In San Juan, the fish cried blood,
their comrades weaving between corpses.
The frogs leapt at the shores of the river—
they could not stomach the eyes of the dead.

Cleanse the borders, Trujillo said.
Paint it in blood, the people chanted.
And Haitians saturated the fertilizer
for the sugarcanes they planted that morning.

Under the complicit eyes of FDR,
Trujillo and Stenio shook hands and set the price.
21 dollars per person on paper. Done deal.

From Dajabon to Moca, no black men stand.
Those left were piled in trucks and dumped in the sea.
Their numbers we will never know—
they were not part of the deal.

They were wasted money.

About the Author

Sony Ton-Aime graduated from Kent State University last December with a bachelor’s degree in business administration. He plans to pursue a career of writing both novels and poems and study corporate law to satiate his love of knowledge. Sony has an avid interest in photography, and he enjoys spending time in his home country of Haiti.

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About the Author