It was a yellow day

It was a yellow day,

the light slanted

with its yellow scent.

She followed him as

he walked through

dirty streets, asking

him to come home,

no more drugs

no more drugs

to the baby they created,

to the baby she was holding.

no more drugs

no more drugs

A turn; his angry eye

silenced her, just as the bullets

tore through their bodies.

Last Sunday, we heard a sermon by the director of a street outreach ministry in Honduras. This poem, and the one yesterday (The photograph) are based on a true story. If you’d like to learn more, please visit The Micah Project.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The photograph

It is the only photograph

he has of her, his mother,

and not a real photograph but

instead a poor reproduction

printed in a cheap newspaper

the day after she died

(“unidentified woman found

shot to death”) in a bullet

storm that passes for gang

justice. He looks at the body

in the photograph, bullet-spackled,

the photograph folded and creased,

fading, tucked within small plastic.

He can’t remember her voice but

he can remember the sound

of the bullets.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.