Improv on Psalm 137 By my rivers – the Merrimack and the Piscataqua, so far from the Kaduna, the Jebba, the Niger, I sit down to weep. How can I sing the songs of Mother’s Day, receive the thumb-smudged card, flowers, a phone call from my daughter in California when other mothers’ daughters are gone. Bring back our girls. If I forget you, torn from your classrooms, dragged from villages in the night, and if I forget your murdered brothers, may every sweet memory of my children’s childhood wither and be lost to me, may my tongue cling silent when I want to say, “I love you.” Remember, God, the violence of Boko Haram that it turn to dust in their hands. and tear down, tear down the many foundations of anger built on Western abuses. Happy be the ones who guide safely between the terrible rocks of politics and economy and religion all the little ones of every nation -- there is too much dashing.
Posted on: Fri, 09 May 2014 12:04:14 +0000
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