In front of the congregation
my voice falters,
a memory hits me like a brick.

He stood out among the filth.
Not just filth.
Over 100 men in a small room,
small cell I mean.
They can only sleep in shifts…while standing.
But who cares about filth?

The children they ask. What about the children?

I think back to the bars, the cage, the shackled filth.

How is school for the children? Are they getting fed?

I see men with letters raised in the air. Sleepless nights, what do they write?

The children have soccer matches? How wonderful!

Dark eyes, dirty faces,
their lives are being wasted.
Filth on filth piling up.
I see THE letter raise high up.

Water? Protein? The children are looking skinny, do they not feed them meat in Haiti?

I’m home
But only for a week.
Civilization is not for me.
All I see is the letter.
He wrote:

Thank you for speaking to me,
I pray that you won’t stop coming.

Are they learning in school? Do they even have a school?

More rushing thoughts,
he is glad he’s in prison,
thankful even,
for that’s where he found his haven.

 We want to help the children. Can we sponsor more children?

I asked the man
what can I get you?
Food? Clothes? A lawyer?
There’s not much to spare.
One thing,
just ask and it’s yours.

  It’s so reassuring – the children have what they need even though…the filth.

Peterson.
his name is Peterson.
That’s what he wrote.
I’m back home,
leaving tomorrow.
And all I can think about
is bringing Peterson back a hymn book…

# # #

Cory Gilbert has always been a story teller. Ever since he could remember. The desire to share the stories that are constantly filling his head, whether he’s at work or trying to sleep, is a passion that cannot be contained any longer. He has spent the last few years studying the written word.

Photo: Ben White