Subbing in Sunday School in the Time of Migration
For whom shall we pray?
I survey the second-graders in their bright dresses,
soft sweaters, and little-man suits—dressed up for church.
Solemn eyes—too young to know such pain—meet my smiles.
My family in Venezuela.
They have no electricity,
and it’s so far—
My people coming from Honduras;
They are coming here, but
they are dying on the road.
My mom came from Honduras.
My dad from Mexico.
That was before I was born.
In visions I see the travelers, hungry and haunted,
tattered clothes on their bowed backs,
each bearing a heavy cross.
So I write the list on the marker board,
write it in blood and shame
alongside the teacher’s prayer
for safety on vacation.