Where Are You, God?
The Romans looking with pleasure
on the devastation they have visited
on the vulnerable represent all who kill
and destroy for the sake of power.
The mother whose arms are raised
to heaven, her voice crying out
in pain and protest, is any parent
whose children lie dead
at the hands of terrorists and tyrants.
The mother’s robe is stained
with her son’s blood. Her eyes ask
Why? Where are you, God, you
who promised to protect your people?
Look at my son’s feet. Just yesterday
they ran and skipped through village streets.
Look at these knees that knelt to worship you.
His hands once wrapped around
my neck, but now his neck is slashed.
His blood runs across the small ear
that loved to hear the chanted prayers.
God, how I can still believe?
Wilda Morris, a widely published poet, is Workshop Chair, Poets and Patrons of Chicago. Her latest book is Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick, published by Kelsay Books. Her blog at wildamorris.blogspot.com features a monthly contest for other poets.
The Ekphrastic Review
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