A poem I wrote after our scary Wednesday in Haiti.
The boy lies limp in the dust
Of the road. An argument engulfs him.
The boy’s Papa screams, “Who did this?
What have you done to my boy?”
But no one helps the boy.
Ayiti lies on the road under a midday sun,
Blood from her head, her shoes
Knocked from her feet.
But the crowd does not tend to Ayiti.
The crowd argues over why Ayiti was on the road.
The crowd jostles who will pay for the blood.
The crowd roars, “The boy is dumb.
Why was he on the road?” The father,
spits fury at the motorbike rider,
“How could you be so careless?!?
I cannot pay for the hospital!
All I have is my anger!”
And still, who will care for the boy on the road?
Ayiti lives her life on the road,
Her blood mixes with the dust
And becomes one. And what does
It mean, then, when the dust
Rises and coats every person and
Every place? What does it mean
That the boy’s blood mixes
With the dust and rises and coats
Every person and every place
Along the road?
Ayiti lies on the road under the midday sun.
Who will care for the boy on the road?
This is one in a series of posts chronicling my experience of and response to a recent service trip to Haiti.