Red Dust

Mother left.
She said God will
take care of us, and
that we should pray.
But we can't,--
God won't listen.
Or maybe she will.
To the sound of our feet against
the earth, hardening each step,
each mile, each time we travel.
To our hands, cracked
bleeding like water from a
spring, only, less hope in it.
To the hair on our skin
suffocating, afraid to grow,--
blinded by the haze.
Mother said that we should
Pray, but we won't.
Because, God, he's inside,
underneath, our skin.
behind our eyeballs,
in respite, from the world.