I see her praying at her bedside,
on her knees asking God to stop the bullets.
Seven years old.
She should be playing outside,
skinning her knees, crying for scratches
and not for brothers and sisters who died
when cars drove by and fired bullets inside.
At eleven I see her smile, her joy
cut short when God forgets her prayers,
when a car drives by and bullets
shatter the window
and her childhood
and her smile is covered in blood.
I would pray but know that sometimes God does not listen.