Small hands;
Reach
Want
Need.
How do I help him?
This little human,
My little human—
Created,
A perfect blend of a German
And me
Cries
Throughout the night.
I close my eyes;
So tired.
Why
Doesn’t the German wake up?
Eyes closed,
I know he pretends to sleep.
I do the same.
Sighs,
I look at the clock—
Only two hours gone
Since I laid down.
I jab the German
With sharp elbows.
He stirs,
Yet he still pretends.
I’m up—
I fumble for the light,
Trip over toys not housed
I Fall
I Swear
I Sob
I brace
Against the wall.
The cries
Do not cease.
My fingers
Feel the smoothness
Of the light switch.
Illumination
Of
Small hands
That Reach
That Want
That Need.

I see their faces every time I turn on the television or internet;
inundated with stories of their parents--
grieving, asking for help;
wanting to prevent any other children from the same fate that befell theirs—

the senseless carnage,
the sound of empty casings  hitting the floor—
some bullets enveloped in the soon to be carcasses
of dead children, wanting their parents,

wanting the nightmare to end;
not knowing or understanding;
soon there will be no pain—
just darkness.