unsafe space

ejected from womb,

coughing up birth fluid.

wriggle like a slug in caked dirt.

pink baby skin scratching,

ants making their way.

mother is still.

a fly lands on her face.

baby rolls dirt in her eyes,

baby howls her cries.

a fly lands on her face.

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group therapy

they hold it,

the silver lever.

the white coat man

says, ‘Now.’

we feel the shock

in our guts, at

our fingers tips,

charging our eyeballs.

everything smells like

burnt hair.

those around us

scare us.

‘Why? Again?

Why again?’

smoke clears.

sparks dissipate

out our soles and

find homes in our bones

and blood.

i see you and remember

what we share.

you smile.

i smile.

the white coat man

says, ‘Now,’ and

they slam the lever down.

problem solved

federal money for guns in classrooms

so the pigs on the hill can appease

ol’ wayne lapierre.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

so the likelihood of accidents can increase

to an even more absurd degree.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

so that when a gun fires in a first grade classroom,

it’s not the only one.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

so that public schools are so terrifying

no one sends their kids inside.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

because, as adults, this is how

we solve problems.

 

there is not enough bewilderment

to fill this senseless void;

the place we’ll bury the

dead kids we failed.