Some Politicians Claim | Alison Stone

Some Politicians Claim
More Guns Will Solve
the Problem of Gun Violence

Summer 1
©2023 Miroslava Panayotova
photograph

How To Cope

Stare at flowers.
Not the snap-necked daffodils or the hyacinth
your husband flattened with the car.
Take in the unblemished blossoms left.
Remind yourself that future thoughts
and prayers probably won’t be for your town
and if your town, not your kid’s school.
And if they are, statistically your child
would be scared but safe, hiding in a closet
under mops or climbing from a window, running
dazed toward the expressway to flag help.
Go back to the flowers. Let images
of snowdrop and crocus crowd out 
former parents’ indescribable eyes.
Let the bible offer comfort. Abraham
was willing to give up his son as sacrifice.
Can we match his piety? The God
we’ve created in our image
demands blood.

Picture 27
©2023 Tina Rimbaldo
photograph

Poem for Kendrick Castillo

You don’t look like the image of “hero,”
unlike the brawny blond athlete who tackled
the last shooter, though as much as the middle-aged lady
who threw herself in front of the rabbi.
Sorry to make you share this poem
with others, but there are so many and we need
to conserve the trees we have left.
Maybe soon we’ll just swap out names
the way Elton John 
recycled Marilyn’s song for Diana. 

We say the dead live on
in their actions. So you persist 
in other students—their bodies intact
because you lunged—almost ready
to throw caps in the air
and head into the rest of their lives.
Maybe this comforts your parents, 
everyone still lauding your courage,
though you’ll get knocked off
the news soon enough. One grief
flowing into the next. Children
sitting in classrooms. The next
gun shining somewhere, loaded.

from To See What Rises (CW Books, 2023)

There Is No Gun

There is no gun in this poem.
No politicians. No money.
The children sit in classrooms. If a boy
pulls the fire alarm, it’s a dumb prank. 
The closets are stuffed with buckets
and brooms. The children’s blood
is under their skin. Some are learning
how it pumps from heart to artery to vein.

There are no heroes,
though teachers unpack books
they’ve paid for and the unthanked janitor
mops vomit in the hall.
The coach wonders which drills
will bring his team to victory, 
not how many bodies
his bulk can shield. The news crews
are elsewhere with their helicopters and headlines.

Some kids play violent video games.
Some are angry and attack
with fists or catty Snapchat posts.
There is no AR-15. No fixed adjustable
front and rear iron sights. No
30-round staggered-column detachable
box magazine. No 25 rounds in 2.5 seconds.
The bell rings in this poem.
Children grab their backpacks and head home.