(At the December anniversary of the Newtown massacre)
In the coffee shop behind me,
teachers talk about George,
“he’s so dis-regulated.”
O God, regulate me—
in this place of lost light,
once dense and bright.
A gun owner’s manual—
phone queue for help—
one blanket per family—
all standard regulation.
No need for extreme
measures, our babies dying
in their crowded classroom.
Like pieces of December broken
off in our hands, we scratch
at the heavens with frozen limbs.
Bloody pain, help us in our grief,
our fingers dig at the flesh of Your Face.
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Thank you for this poem. It is powerful.
Powerful. Almost too relevant.