I think of your face,
Pure and perfect
as a Siennese Virgin.
On that Sunday though
You acted as the other Mary,
Stunned and weeping
as you knelt at his body…

You who are full of compassion
and nurturance,
You for whom concern is instinct,
I have heard your cries
and questions,
Wondered with you
Why and how,

The uncaring men
Who turned their backs
and hearts
(Sworn to protect
so long as there are alms),
The people meant to heal
(Demanding more than change)
Who did not care to keep.

The city’s shame,
Society’s debt;
Meaningless as sympathy
on a cold sidewalk.

Your compassion did mean something.
Your questions do demand answers:

In a country where so much tragedy–
So many deaths–
Are wept for by millions,
How can only one woman’s tears
Wet the asphalt where he laid?

How can men and women
Capable of such heroism
Turn blind eyes to the suffering
of the street?

How can all this
create meaning?

On an uncaring curbside,
A caring girl,
A wise woman,
A concerned soul
Made all the difference once
In the life
and the end
Of a man with a name.

This night
My thoughts
(be they prayers or questions)
Lie with you, with him,
With all
Who have eyes
Which see.