To any Victim of the Haitian Earthquake, any Family Member Thereof, or Anyone Relatedly Afflicted:

From a spoiled little white girl
in the heart of America
--the fatted, noisy cow forever kept from the slaughter--
comes this poem, to the poorest,
most unfortunate of people,

far closer to God than I will ever be.

My words are construed on the finest of devices
(as compared to the sodden, creaking cot that the dying,
sickly, wounded, or otherwise afflicted
lay their throbbing heads,

crying eyes,
ringing ears;
and nostrils flared
with the reek of death)

and my feet are kept warm with patterned,
purple slippers
(ridiculously decorated, as compared to the bare,
twisted, or otherwise crushed digits of the wound-
ed)
.

I spread this poem to the corners of the world,
and cast it out into the sea with the single stroke
of a key;

I make my voice heard and fear no reproach;
I sleep safe and warm within a prospering household.

I have a future, a school, the opportunity
for a job,
--and moreover, I have
so-called "dignity"--
--(and more interestingly, I have
so-called "equality")--

and society loves a spoiled,
white
American

girl.

I, however,
am far less cherished
in the eyes of my Savior.

Blessed be the ones who have died in this quake.
Do not let the light die, for He will
not forsake.