Hear our prayer. Your silence, again, is outrageous to me, it places you impossibly among the ranks of the monstrously indifferent, no better than a Washington politician, not better that an Albany Republican, Alfonse D'Amato, something that meager, that immured against Justice. Where you must not be placed. If prayer is beseeching, a seeking after the hidden heart and face of God, then this peremptory, querulous, insistent demanding, this pounding at your door cannot be called a prayer. I am in the habit of hoping.
Rapacious birds swoop down and obscure the traces, but the path is recoverable.
It can be discovered again. For racism too. For homophobia and sexism, and an end to war, to nationalism and capitalism, to work as such and to hatreds of the flesh. Restore the despoiled world, end the pandemic of breast cancer too, bring back Danitra Vance, and Audre Lorde, and Sigrid Wurschmidt, dead at 36, and my mother, dead at 65. Or at least guarantee that loss is not irrecoverable, so that life can be endured.