I wonder how often God sees
us laughing about disobeying
the foolish thoughts of white
theologians that find nothing
more than faults with the faith
of invisible people in barrios
they never visit.  I would like
to know whether Jesus took the
time to pray for the Boricua boy
shot in the back last week on the
corner, for Joey who ended his life
on a rooftop with a needle still in
his seventeen-year-old arm and all
the Brown skinned people who like
the so-called son of God cannot speak
a lick of English. help me to understand
the prayers of the women taking care
of other peoples’ children, the fatigued
men cutting grass and shaping gardens
with the weight of families across the
border explaining to them daily their
new way of life. the blood stains in the
barrio turned into words that question
the complicity of Christianity in assuring
the satisfaction of the greed that sailed
across the Ocean to carry out imperial
deeds—your God I must say does not know