Human life is
impossible. They're
investigating motivation, as if the precise wording of his intention
were
key.
When she returns to their apartment, his wife wears a #84 hoodie and
a wedding ring; their toddler waits in the back of a car. The arc of
our grief has flat-lined. There are too many details to make a poem of, and no abstraction
sturdy enough to rein
them in.
We bring survivors
out
in their hospital beds to speak to reporters. We put up
photos
of
the dead
and we read their names, their ages. We find stories to tell about
them, weeping friends to put on camera. Soul's skin closes against
the murky
run-off
of our anger and a sadness whose pause button has broken. What is
there to write? What
petitions can we sign? The photo of a doctor's track shoes filthy with blood stains appears on social
media. The
toddler, nested between his smiling parents, has been blurred out for
his protection.
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