Isis
Stephanie Pressman
Here are no crowds vying for the best
sight lines, no women knitting
the names of the accused
into long scarves, no vendors
selling programs, no cheers
as the blade falls. Dumb,
we watch light flicker on a TV screen
a knife slash and slash again.
Invoked, the goddess is nowhere
to be found. No health, no love.
No children sitting on Daddy’s
lap. No couples side by side
deciding their future. The women
shrouded, stoned to death
for false accusations. Boys
with Kalashnikovs they can barely hold
forced to watch. Acid thrown
on daughters who glance
at a youth on a motorcycle. To these
the response is a throwing up
of hands, a shrug of a shoulder.
But behead one of our own?
Weapons. Troops. A challenge
in the playgrounds. No goddess,
no family, no end game.