by Ann E. Wallace
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| “Pinky Promise” by Joseph Patton |
Can you see it?
The shredding of precious
organs, of slim muscles and growing
bones, of smiles and baby teeth,
of dimples and pinky promises,
when weapons meant for war
open fire on 40- and 50-pound
children crouching under desks,
hiding behind racks of graded
readers, and huddling
in the pretend play center.
Can you imagine
what damage has been
wreaked when a mother must
recall the neatly pressed
dress or red striped shirt
her third grader selected
for the end of school festivities,
two days before summer break,
when a father must swab
his cheek or offer a vial of blood
to confirm that the shattered
remains held in the morgue
belong to his darling child?
How as a nation
do we bear that another
community has been asked
to be patient, that parents
were again told to not pick up
their kids, not yet, when they heard
the news, so as not to cause chaos—as if
parents’ terror caused this mayhem—
until officials have finished scouring
the brightly colored classrooms
for small victims, until doctors
have saved those they could
and zipped those they could not
into oversized body bags, until
every student has been accounted for,
until nineteen sets of parents
have learned they will never
again pick up their children?
How do we justify
that while the devastated
people of Uvalde have waited
in desperation for their children
to be accounted for,
no one is holding
our leaders accountable?
Ann E. Wallace is a poet and essayist from Jersey City, New Jersey. Her published work can be found at AnnWallacePhD. Follow her on Twitter @annwlace409 or on Instagram @annwallacephd.com.
