April 17, 2007

The flags grow weary of trying to fly with lesser wind than they were provided yesterday:
Half-masted and left to droop and flutter, frail emblems of great ideas,
Grand entourage of a larger scheme of faith in the imaginary, hope in a vapor.
The first family wept. The second family wept. The third family wept...
My friend wept for them all. They called it a tragedy, a catastrophe, a massacre.
My better friend wore a hat like a legionnaire's shield, guarding not just eyes
But a face flushed by recent tears——didn't notice the flags or the books
As she walked into a library to be alone. Sometimes
The death of a dream is sadder than the death of a person far far away.
London would be so nice that time of year: rain leaping off newborn primula,
Bouncing down the canopies of sidewalk shops, and rattling down dark gutters.
People in old-fashioned suits and new-fashioned dresses, all with umbrellas,
And most with gloves, not rushing (god forbid), just hurrying with dainty steps
Across puddles and rivulets. Then the next morning the glow of the east
Would shine through white laced curtains, to rest warmly on two forms clasped
In the sleepy waking remonstrance of true love.
And I know, yes I do, that somewhere an old old soul shivers, wrapped only in a plastic bag,
While a rat eats the scraps he traded for a blissful, torturous death.
And I know, yes I know, that somewhere a child is running across hot golden sand,
His left arm a half-mile away, and the freedom fighters close on his trail.
And I know, yes I do, that somewhere a little girl is staring blankly
At the shadowy form who just raped and beat her again (they call these shadows "father").
And I know that there are thousands thousands, thousands thousands,
And the world continues, unchecked, unhindered, a chaos of all things,
And we have lived and died, laughed, cried,
If only to know that it is not all people killing people or dreams dying,
But, like a crude usher to an unfamiliar scene, it leads us onward through the birth pangs of existence
And teaches us——oh, the sorrow! but oh, the joy! of life.

[April 16, 2007 was the date of the Virginia Tech massacre in which 32 people were killed and many others wounded. This poem was written the evening of April 17.]