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Elissa S. Stuart


Laughing, she turns to me
Saying, "Come, meet God"
Glance swiftly through the keyhole
Peer curiously into the darkness
The image of a painted God
In all His glorious splendor

How can she bear
To keep God so near?
He'll never awake
He's been in a closet
For over forty years

He has his incense, privacy
Lounging passively in darkness
Does He care
What a concentration camp is?
Or a nuclear weapon?

Real eyes meet painted
I flinch and look away
Afraid of an image
On a shelf
Giggle nervously
I turn
Quietly shutting the door