since ...

it was december that day
for so many days
it was december
and we sat and stared,
maddened
and sickened
denying what we saw
and all day long it was december
and the next day
and the next day
and the next day.

and the next day we stood in line
our toes pinched cold
and the Beatles blared against the frost
pushed back the sadness
"there are places I remember"
and the line was long
so long
and the moment was brief
but i meant what i said
though i forgot what i'd rehearsed
and as we left
i cried
because i knew what i hadn't known
what i would miss
and i ached
that i'd had to say goodbye
to a boy i'd never known
would never know
and the list of things i'd let get away from me
the names of people i'd forgotten
stretched out for miles
the whole drive home
and all that night
it was december.

december clung to us in sleep
infected our dreams
made one long day
of what had been two
and in the morning
we pushed into church pews
sat pressed up against walls,
on each other's laps
and i was angry
so angry at the reverend
who mispronounced names
and called on us to be thankful
told us to pray
and praise his holy name.
and i wanted to scream
i wanted to slam my fists against the marble
and cry out that
god isn't here
and
why should we thank him
and
how can we pray now
when everything is
the way it is
and for days
it had been december.

and everywhere else
it hadn't happened
everyone else
went shopping
and caroling
drank lattes
and cut each other off in traffic
and i sat and watched them
angry at them all
that their lives had not been altered
their routines were still routine
and i could not even enjoy a cup of coffee
because it could not warm me
it could not soothe me
and it seemed like it would always be december.

and now
i wash my face
i keep my hair from tangling
and i go about
the way things are
the way i have to do them
and i will watch and wait
and wait
and wait
for the ending of december.

and her in a little red car

I was never one for chanting
it always felt forced and juvenile.
never cheered along for the home team
never clapped
or rooted
repeated letters in some mass spelling bee
at least, not without feeling mildly annoyed
and getting a stress headache.
but it was different that day.
the day when she was twenty feet from me
and I could see her
thank her for her work
her bravery
her fight
that she fought for herself
and the rest of us
so we-
so I would not have to.
I cheered that day.
I cheered and chanted and screamed from the barricade
and was proud.

Thank you, Edie.

Thank you. Thank you. Ad infinitum.

5-4

in the morning I watched and waited
with baited breath
and fingernails bitten down
to rough, uneven edges.
And when the decision came down
those words from the nine
that voted five to four
for me
I cried
and you smiled
and we were equal.

everywhere. inward.

and i can't get her voice
the voice of a mother
i can't get that voice out of my head
when she explained
how her surviving son had begged
had questioned her
innocently,
the way that only children can
"But Mommy, you said you would always protect us.
You promised."

The Note

the address on the envelope was handwritten
and I stared at it
trying somehow
to decipher if it had been written
by a man or a woman
the father or the mother
of a murdered child.

It was not addressed to me
the card
but rather to the person
who sent the check in my name
and I hated myself for noticing
and more for wanting it to be my name on the envelope
written with decided care
and strength
each letter evenly spaced and shaped.

I concluded that it had been the father
based solely on the diagonal slant
at which the return address was written
and the haphazard placement of the stamp
that read

Justice.
FOREVER

The lighthouse on the card
was just a picture
a blue, embossed print
on a white piece of card stock
but I kept watching it,
waiting for it to light the way home.

powerless

it's a compulsion
this ache to please you
to make you happy
to not make you unhappy.

a compulsion.

i can't stop it
even when it's wrong
even when it's stupid
even when it makes everything
so much worse.

this compulsion

keeps me up at night
whispers in my ear
all the stupid things i have said
or have not said
to make you happy
to not make you unhappy.

and you sleep beside me
blissfully ignorant
until tomorrow
when all my work
comes crashing down.

not done

if you spoke of one
and only one
and spoke of one and only one
with seven days between
until you spoke of all
you would fill the spaces
that spread from January
to June.

the space of half a year
to speak of one and only one
one at a time
the same way they came
the same way they left
one
after another
after another
and another
until all that was left was silence
and sadness
and cries of someone to help us.

genius

did you ever get so angry
at one person
that you almost went to sleep
in the other room
before realizing that
the person you are angry at
is yourself
because you are
yet again
a fucking idiot?






just me?

too long

that is how long it has been

since i last did this

stupid, trivial thing

that everyone says they admire

but no one pays attention to. 

too long.

that is how long i waited

for something beyond "oh, fuck"

to tell me to do something

that might actually mean 

anything more than 

i guess i have to.

even now i don't want to

even as i do it

see my actions etched in the absolute foreverness

that is keystrokes

and the internet.

even now i can't really say that i care.

but i have to say something.

because i don't want what i said last time

to be the last thing i said.

I have not recognized my own voice since that day.
the sandpaper I'm sorry's and oh my god's, how's and why's
have worn away the lining of my throat
burned my mouth and tongue
and my words catch on the scratches and new grooves
the cracks that have have formed on the insides of my cheeks
and none of it means anything anymore.

They stand there on Main Street
with their camera crews
filming burning candles
and piles of water-logged teddy bears
remind us that the nation is not done with us
they are not done pitying us
using our sadness
our terror to remind them of basic human decency.

And I have seen the pictures
read the articles and essays
the letters to children who aren't coming home
and I am numb
and the tears only come when I drop something on my hand
drop it hard and fast
and the pain pushes me over the edge
and I wail for twenty minutes
the sobs squeezing through my throat
and sounding more like an old man laughing
than myself in pain and grief,
exhausted,
and that only makes me cry more
because I can't even recognize my own tears
my crying is not my crying
but some odd, animal sound
base and tiny
seeping out my lungs
and searing my chest as it seizes against the sobs.

And that ache is unbearable
it push-pulls at my shoulder blades
out my chest
drilling out
hot and catching on my ribs
but I almost love that ache
that memory of feeling
that sick, shared bond with so many people I wish I didn't know so I could ignore it.
But that's a lie because this can't be ignored.
not by me.
and the ache is real
the ache is familiar
it is believable and undeniable
it is everything that this situation is not.

And that sickly, sticky numbness
that comes when the pain and confusion threaten my sanity
is all I know.
So I sit,
pressing the sore spot on my hand
so I can feel anything else.