We were boiling bananas on the roof of our
house.
Mother’s laughter clutched the heart of my
ears.
She was gossiping with a neighbor.
Mother was storytelling, sweet as poetry. I loved
To watch her tongue play the music of conversation.
They worked on their knees, their noses
colored by wood smoke. Boiling bananas
was like a prayer
We whispered, sang with faces lifted up,
We made art through peeling bananas,
slicing them into pieces to boil on the
fire, hoping for a kiss on a cheek
From a bird; an old hymn bathing our
exhausted souls.
At the roof’s edge, I overlooked a cavernous
grotto, and I saw God cooking for children
like me. I watched him prepare the dinner
table for them in heaven,
A kingdom of mercy. I stretched my arms
to touch the magic, then ran to my
mother, whimpering
That I saw God cooking for the children.
She smiled but continued talking with her
neighbor. I yelled
At my mother for attention, pointing,
but she just smiled. I kept watching God
make delicious food for one hundred
children gathered on their knees around
him, longing in awe. I waved to them,
But they didn’t notice me. I imagined
the smell from our rooftop carried a
kind of hope.
Under my bare feet, bananas peels and two
bowls, one for us and the other for the
hungry people
In our neighborhood. It became a ritual
ever since one hundred children had died of

hunger,
One hundred innocent souls vanished.
I swear I saw God cooking for them,
but no one believed me; they just kept
smiling