Sometimes
if summer is old enough
and the leaves heavy with heat,
continuo of cicada
tricks me, and,
for so brief an instant,
I am back
in the time of bikes, grass prickles,
summer sleighbells of the ice cream man,
clothespin dolls,
clover braids,
a time when we had not yet heard of
mass shootings.
But it — that time — knew of nooses
of word and of rope.
To go back is to ask —
how could a country of lynchings
not become a country of mass shootings?
There is no perfect then.
When brutalities of day
give way
to candlelight of moon
do we find ease
and breathe
stillness?
Or do we ask
is it mere mask
for predator
conspirator
and illness?
Those of us who try to write struggle to find words for the anguish. Maybe there are none.
Word fog
obscures.
Name-calling,
side-stepping,
blame-gaming,
snake-oiling
drivel.
Then a teenager speaks,
then another,
and a light pierces
the muck.
May our young people
and their teachers
be safe today so they can continue to be that light.
LOWER TO HALF-MAST. REPEAT.
Measured anger,
calibrated,
methodically
articulated,
sourced in heart
tempered in mind,
sentence by sentence
clearly defined.
Rage and anguish
penned halberds
change can fly
on wings of words.
We must, dear reader, believe that.
Of the dawn I asked
Do you burn with frost or fire?
Is this the scald
of ice or ire?
Are you flushed with fever
reflected pain
or with northern lights
of frigid disdain?
