any god—when you pray—will tell you—the last thing
they want to do is turn their back—then they turn.
you’re from a country where bombs have
revoked bodies into void, for years; your grandma died
this way. her limbs in the south, head,
north, hands, east—as if showing god
how to dismember a poem. It’s your turn now.
the bombs have come in the same temper—
you in your granny’s frame, near the spot she
escalated into dust. you call upon god,
a bomb dies in your face. your ghost becomes
a thumbprint for history—that you were here—
that god took off at the blast. unbelief is you
with a gun in heaven pointing, asking why, why?