If You’re Out There

by Marie-Bernadette Rollins

Don’t come complaining to us about war
You had it coming.

Don’t feed the stove with iron and ice if
you want it burning.

Don’t appease our wounds with elixirs that
you know won’t be numbing.

Don’t promise us next May when you know that
you won’t be returning.

We’ve mourned the moon through each feeble night but
this eye can’t find sleep.

Don’t condemn vices you burden us with
from cradle to tomb.

Don’t reproach us for ravishing fields that
you gave us to reap.

If you want us to repent, then tell us
who’s praying to whom?