for the sweet Kichwa girl whom God has not forgotten
Oh our Father who art in heaven,
the soles of whose feet
are dirty with earth,
when an indigenous kid
is kidnapped and killed
and stretched out unburied far from home,
unmourned because of the native blood
that for fifteen rainy seasons danced her veins
in languages too satin, too delicate
for this money-punch crowd to comprehend,
she isn’t just another sparrow to You,
some native statistic out in the bush
who will never make the local news.
No, You stitched this girl together
from the crest where sunlight sparks on river,
from the birdsong that mixes with monkey chatter
and the stories that drift over open fires.
Now You sit vigil at her side,
cup her hair in Your hands and make lament.
You sing it the way her papa should have
and press Your scars, somehow still fresh,
against the wounds
that the world left open.
One day You will rise up
and avenge her death,
string her name like an arrow
in the bow of Your justice,
grown taut with patience—
but this evening You simply sit at her side
and cover her corpse
with the shadow of Your wings.
You will rise up, yes,
but there is an order of things,
and first You must show us
how to let ourselves feel it,
let ourselves weep,
how to love the least of these so much
we climb on their crosses with them
and bleed.
Backyard Apricots 