1,261 Readings

I am Adam Lanza’s Mother

When I am the tragedy that has forgotten its name
When my tongue no longer sees
There are sharp teeth that could take it hostage
When the false light ceases to burn in the false sky
When rain on our heads feels like an annotation
When we have flipped the switch from on to off
When the cart trundles the donkey for miles and miles
And a car bombing on the West Bank
Is the same as a baby crying in the next room
When I am the salve and the gun is the salve
When I am torch-whipping
The thin edge of the wedge
When we need to talk about it
When I walk with my arms wide open into the oncoming world
The stone soup in my bowl turned to stone
When I feel occluded and blasphemed
And the truth is happening behind my eyes
In chattering fast breaths
Of anxious import of help and of hindrance

When the child down the street is no long my child or anyone's child
Or this child or that child
A bulletproof child whose vest is my chest
Is my broken bone
My boiling bones roiling beneath my boiling skin
My bruised head craning from the window
To see what is next
This child who came to me in the pulsating morning light
With a whimper and a sigh

Posted 12/16/12
Sandy Hook 12/14/2012
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