Not Unmarked, Spinning

     Again, the blare of warnings, agitation of
bodies fleeing rooms or hiding in place.
     Can't fathom the terrible seed that ticks then
detonates inside an anger so great, it must
     express itself in violence. No training prepares 
for what we fear the most when guns
     go off in a hallway, a classroom. Not theory nor
hypothesis. Bodies falling to the floor: the
     irrefutable conclusion. Sirens down the boulevard, where 
just moments ago we pointed out blooming trees, 
     kalanchoe shrubs tucked along walkways. Mid-morning 
limps now toward noon. What lightness there was
     moves slow like a barge, though we tell ourselves 
not to forget it does exist. Sometimes, just
     one unexpected gesture does that. One kindness
prodded to the surface that breaks the crust,
     quieting the turmoil that has wings black as crows.
Remember what in us is soft-boned, fragile,
     sweet— sometimes all we can do is hug each other
tight. Every day, new ripples of violence 
     unspool. No one is unmarked, though we 
vow not to let it change the human in us. 
     We will ourselves to survive, though rearranged 
exquisitely by grief. In this, just as
     yesterday and tomorrow, life goes on. Birds on a
zoetrope flicker on a spinning drum.