They are not my children
they did not come from my womb
nor suckle at my breast
I did not watch as they lifted their head
as they crawled then walked
falling on their face
and getting up to put foot after foot
then faster to run and laugh in joy
I did not hold them when they cried
scraped knees and disappointments
nor when their stomaches rumbled
and the ridges of their ribs
pushed against their tee shirts
I did not feed them
I did not put them to bed
I did not watch over them
They are not my children
so why do I cry
to know their small broken bodies
lay in unmarked graves
discarded, denied, disappeared
the patter of little feet
endlessly wandering
their cries in the wind
They are all our children
to love and nourish
to acknowledge and hear
to mourn and defend
to call to dinner and feed them good food
to ask about their day
and give them time to play
to name them and imagine their potential
Our children
(c)2021 by Catherine Elder
Children at residential schools
