by Mary McColley
Content warning for war.
God do you know
I wrote you prayers on the backs of maple leaves,
stared wide-eyed at the stars I said scattered from your palm,
sifted through the prints of your fingers,
God do you know I loved you
God do you know how Hind whimpered
as 335 bullets surpassed sound, riddled her father’s blue car and her cousin’s heart
God do you know how Hala’s hand slipped from her grandson’s,
white cloth flagging in the child’s grasp, dark abaya folded on grey rubble
as the sniper found his mark—her heavy heart—
God do you know how Tameem cried in the corner of my classroom
at the guns that won’t stop ringing through his ears, his eyes, his memory,
he’s the seventh tallest boy in Palestine, he tells me and everyone, God,
do you know I held children, my hands on their shaking shoulders,
they told me their cousins died this weekend in the bright warm fire of a bomb,
I hear only the hollow in the church-bells now, my shoulders tense and small
beneath the vault of stone-eyed saints, every stained glass seems blood-red
and no one listens when I beg grace
look, alpha and omega—your image lies in body bags.
What do you know, after all?
Morning Mist in the Mountains
by Joy Curtis
Mary McColley is a writer and poet originally from Maine. She has wandered and worked for a number of years in France, Thailand, and Palestine. Her pastimes include killing lobsters and selling street art.
Joy Curtis is an artist whose photography captures the rugged beauty of the Rocky Mountains and the sweeping plateaus of Southwest Colorado. Her work explores the interplay of light and shadow, the vivid hues of desert landscapes, and the timeless spirit of the wilderness. Call it splendor, call is majestic, but in short Joy just likes nature.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 