The massacre of babies with bushmasters
are words that shame the lips, stun the tongue into silence,
end words,
send language,
or even the very idea
of language,
raining down
into the holy place
inside the dark forever of
a parent’s soul,
forever divided
between this and that,
then and now,
a rupture so wide and deep
that words
drop into the void.
How can you speak
when you hear such words?
Can you ask questions?
Who is at war with
whom?
How does that sorrow
break?
What does it take to make
the whole world
tremble?
And what of the millions
who only buy more bushmasters
in the wake of those words?
Where are the words that can speak of that?
Those words even silence the rain.