I thought turning off the news would dull the pain
but it doesn’t go away.
A journalist named Foley was murdered–
could not be saved,
might makes right
in a world
where chapters are written in blood-red wounds.
on every street around the world
inside so many homes.
I sit here transporting myself
by traveling in my mind
and reading at my desk where I pretend that my prayers might count,
where I imagine freeing someone from doom
with a miracle
manifested from collective thoughts.
The kidnapped schoolgirls are no longer making headlines.
Tanks on the streets in Ferguson, Missouri remind me of Kent State.
Shoot first, ask questions later
pumps endless adrenaline
into our already overloaded bloodstreams and stressed out lives.
Here in Phoenix, a distraught mother called for help
for her daughter
who had a mental illness
and instead of helping her
the authorities shot the black woman to death.
It’s always the same they say-
we were afraid for our safety.
She had a hammer, or was it Skittles, or perhaps cigars?
the monsoon rains cleanse the dehydrated desert
where the birds are happy, rabbits are bouncing,
the air is scented with sage and blossoms,
a momentary peace
brought on by storms.
Copyright © 2014 by Susan E Rowland