(a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who
was born on September 11, 2001 and who
died at age nine, shot to death ...)

Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.

Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.

Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the evil things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.

And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.

Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short ... bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here ...

I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bring them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.

*

Published by The Flea, The Lyric, Copia Posterous, Elizabeth’s Ramblings, Legacy.com and Fullosia Press

Keywords/Tags: Child, beloved, lily, eiderdown, psalm, shooting, gun, violence, massacres, 9-11, evil, NRA, guns, war, wars, hate, hatred

You are my every wish with every shooting star.
You are what I call a dream and everything else is just a nightmare.
I saw the universe in your eyes and I can’t stop staring,
I saw butterflies dancing in your smile and I can’t take the foolish smile off my face.
I wonder if our paths will cross and become one,
Or will we be just two strangers in parallel universes.

Louis: ‘There’s something about shooting that makes a man feel fully alive.’
Anne: ‘Unlike the birds I suppose.’
Louis: ‘They’re born to be shot, my dear. Like rabbits...and poets.’

you have a tattoo on your left arm
that i have never seen before.
and now i know that i will never
get to ask about it.
two teenagers found dead
shot to death in a car.
you followed me on instagram
a few years ago.
and i, knowing we haven’t
talked in years, thought i should reach out.
nothing would be different if i had,
but
i’m still thinking about it.
we probably would’ve talked for
a day, maybe two,
small talk, i would've learned how you’ve
changed.
but i never said hello
because you were so different,
and i didn't know what to say
and i thought i would always
be able to ask.
when we were kids
we used to sit outside in your garage and play dolls.
we prank-called my brother’s friends on his old phone.
your birthday party is still the only time i’ve ever been to six flags.
you told me that when the sun is out and it starts raining
they say it's the devil beating his wife.
and now i’m grieving in a way that’s more
nostalgic than sad,
because 18 is far too young to die
and i just wish i would’ve asked you how you’ve been.

people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?

the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.

and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.

it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.

your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.

i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.

“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.

will you protect our
heritage?

will you tell mom the
truth about us?

would you die for
me when they shoot at
us again?

last time nine
bullets hit me as i hustled
to save
tizzop

pop in the mag
rack the slide
take it off safety
lets go for a ride

pull back that trigger
hear a bang bang bang
another twelve shots
never feel the pain