A Letter to Ayiti

It's been days since I had the energy to write anything down- to commit any words to paper or screen.  My mind is full of them.  And my heart is bursting with strings of tempered cries and shouts for Ayiti, and the Earth which spits her up and out so brazenly. What have we done to her?  A la Madre Tierra quien escupe sus hijos pa' fuera, uno por uno, con cada temblor?

Ayiti,
I am so glad your children still remember the strength of your hips and back
they are slowly emerging with shovels and drums in hand
to dig and mourn
to build and praise

the Christians have set their altars on shattered buildings
and everyone else has made you, an altar--
the world's prayers upon you,
summoning Le Bon Dieu, Jesus, Yahweh, Allah, Sambia, Ganesh, and Boukman

no yam or rooster
no candles or cornmeal
or white cloth to cover your dead
but the veve have been laid with ash from Cite Soleil and the Presidential Palace
the markings are there and Damballah is rising, to create again
your scars and bruises will be washed with sweet water from Ezili's mouth
and one day, there will be a dance for the dead

no more trails of blood and ash strewn across your womb
no more tattered flags of hope or mudpies for the evening meal
no more bits of freedom settling into unmarked graves

And Ayiti,
the restavec, too, have been liberated--
now none of your children have names

they are all called, Ayiti
nothing but your name to call home