Our Children

 

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