"insinuates" poems - Hello Poetry

Here in America, we improvise morgues as needed. in the cafeterias or by the lockers, near the ticket booths, and at the altars. We divvy up the dead. Tally them and report the number like an answer. 13, 20, 49, 58, 6 Every death count a timely national shock. Almost as if our well-televised monthly tragedy was ever anything less than a game of roulette. anything less than a matter of time and time and time again. Covering them each with our bed sheets, we try and stifle it. Do our best to staunch the the sights, the noises, (“just like chairs falling”) the names that keep bleeding out onto our thoughts and tongues, Far too much and too often not to choke on. Here in America, we’ve learned that horror is level-headed. It is debatable. It is pangless. It seeps, deep to the core, perverting with a silent smile. the steady, feverish dread weaving itself into the mundane. the “god help us” annulled by the “respectfully disagreed” the nightmare that lies always just underneath, and just out of mind, Until it insinuates itself Again and again... Here, in America We line the bodies, death slumped, and bled out on the pavement. We arrange them- Side by side. Most are missing things- a hat, a piece of face. one shoe, a dulled pencil (fill in C) phones buzzing on the ground lit up with unread messages (“Please call me”) They are missing- an upcoming 7th birthday party, (Star Wars themed) They are missing- their vacations. their first dates. their college applications. job interviews. kids. fiancées. Lined up lifeless, they are missing far too many things to gather.

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Apr 1, 2019

Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC

elijahbowen17

Here, in America.

Here in America, we improvise morgues as needed. in the cafeterias or by the lockers, near the ticket booths, and at the altars. We divvy up the dead. Tally them and report the number like an answer. 13, 20, 49, 58, 6 Every death count a timely national shock. Almost as if our well-televised monthly tragedy was ever anything less than a game of roulette. anything less than a matter of time and time and time again. Covering them each with our bed sheets, we try and stifle it. Do our best to staunch the the sights, the noises, (“just like chairs falling”) the names that keep bleeding out onto our thoughts and tongues, Far too much and too often not to choke on. Here in America, we’ve learned that horror is level-headed. It is debatable. It is pangless. It seeps, deep to the core, perverting with a silent smile. the steady, feverish dread weaving itself into the mundane. the “god help us” annulled by the “respectfully disagreed” the nightmare that lies always just underneath, and just out of mind, Until it insinuates itself Again and again... Here, in America We line the bodies, death slumped, and bled out on the pavement. We arrange them- Side by side. Most are missing things- a hat, a piece of face. one shoe, a dulled pencil (fill in C) phones buzzing on the ground lit up with unread messages (“Please call me”) They are missing- an upcoming 7th birthday party, (Star Wars themed) They are missing- their vacations. their first dates. their college applications. job interviews. kids. fiancées. Lined up lifeless, they are missing far too many things to gather.