by Tricia Knoll
I have my hand up in your face, you crazy motherfucker!
I do not want your prayers and thoughts.
Yes, my son was inside that school. Drawing peonies.
What did you say? I said it was my son dancing
in that bar. I’m sick of your platitudes and droopy eyelids.
He was line dancing and you tap dance about amendments.
He was in the yoga studio doing sun salutes.
That’s what I said and yes, I’m yelling at you.
He was stretching for breath to live in peace.
Yes, he was at Shabbat. Next to his grandmother.
And at the Baptist church. And the nursing home.
And the trucking office. And the Waffle Company.
And you’re out here with your microphone
crooning what a terrible shame
that so many people suffer mental illness
and that your people, the ones in their desks
piled with law books, are going for the death penalty
as if that says something other than you don’t know
nothing. This shooter shot himself.
And I don’t want the other ones
dead, I want them loved by someone
and I want YOU to stop making it sooooo easy
for them to buy the guns that make every
single room in this country dangerous to be alive.
We are all in this together. I was there too.
So was my neighbor and his daughter.
And his neighbor in the wheelchair.
Where were you? Playing golf?
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet living in a quiet woods.
