Pull and release to update
Something is broken
when you hear
that it happened again
and you don’t even stop
to mourn.
How many this time?
58.
500 wounded.
Your husband delivers
in clipped tones
over bowls of cereal and milk
and our daughters hum as they eat breakfast:
Oblivious.
After Columbine
I wept over the newspaper
my father and I,
my grade-school heart,
tender and disbelieving,
uncomprehending
the page.
Virginia Tech happened at work,
Sandy Hook when my body was full with our first daughter.
Charleston the sweaty summer, sorrowful shame.
Pulse and bodies stilled in the quick of life.
Pull down to refresh the feed.
Too much to process head-on.
It creeps in through the cracks.
The mind wanders:
What would I have done
what could I have done
if my husband
if my daughters
were swaying to the music,
praying with the shooter
Picking up groceries:
How long was there to hide
Salting the beans for dinner:
When will it happen again
Waking in the night,
the neighbor’s dog barking
the motion sensor light tripped by a sneaking cat:
We are so fragile
We stretch and bend
Our bodies, they break
Our fingers, they scroll
And scroll
And scroll
And scroll
For the next one.
(by Keeley & Jason Bruner)