Saving Our Angels
Hands are too weak to fan horsefly
that feast at the corners of her mouth.
Skin hugs closely to dry bones.
Her breath is the trace of death.
Her lips are shriveled
and cracked as the parched Gadabeji.
Tears suck her soft gaze dry,
but silently she cries.
Eyes watch her on plasma screen
while gulping down the American dream.
Winds echo her plight – east, west, north, and south.
Tiny angel,
with innocent eyes,
stare through all our excuses and lies.
We pretend in God we trust
while we watch his angel die.
In changing seasons that old voice came,
as we play that humdrum Christian game,
pounding on ethics door by door,
saying – “Feed my angel and she will soar.”
Let’s help her mount ten thousand skies;
give her wings that flutter when she flies.
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