Saving GraceEvery year, new idealist volunteers, more tourist than missionary, come to save us with their insect repellent and books. They build tombs from our jaws. They only see our eyes to spotlight them yellow. They prefer white in everything, except souvenirs. They teach us to build fences around dirt and name our children after men in their churches. They burn water to drink. They cut trees for more dirt. They always leave more excited and weighted down than they arrive, stories of squalor and righteousness overflowing their egos. When their vegetarian ethics condescend to our tongues wet with dead cow and air salted by methane, we thank a God they do not believe in for food. Their words crawl in our heads like maggots in a bird nest. Our eggs are broken. ... Originally appeared in Mobius, The Journal of Social Change. It also appears in The Mattress Parlor (Scribble Fire Press). |
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