My life had stood a loaded gun
In corner, till a day
The owner passed — identified,
And carried me away.

And now we roam the sov’reign woods,
And now we hunt the doe —
And every time I speak for him
The mountains straight reply.

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the valley glow —
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through.

And when at night, our good day done,
I guard my master’s head,
’Tis better than the eider duck’s
Deep pillow to have shared.

To foe of his I’m deadly foe,
Non stir the second time
On whom I lay a yellow eye
Or an emphatic thumb.

Though I than he may longer live,
He longer must than I,
For I have but the art to kill —
Without the power to die.

What if I tell you they didn’t evacuate

the high school after he brought in the

clock? What if he and clock waited in the

principal’s office

until the police came? You look at me

as though I pulled the fire alarm,

yelled into a crowded theatre. You

think I can erase the weapon out

of the hands of that young man in

Kevlar pointing his assault rifle at me?

Would your pain lessen? Would you

sleep tomorrow? What if I expunge the

hoodie? Outlaw convenience

stores? Institute curfew for all adult males

after 8 p.m.? Did you know that kid

loved horses, ate Skittles, went to

aviation camp? What if

I rub out midnight of the blue, blue

world? Take the jaywalk from the boy

trying to catch a city

bus? Which blue should it be? First or

second? The last thing you hear on the radio

before mashing

another button? What if there were no loosies

to smoke, steal, hawk? What if Sandy used her signal?

I say her name, I canonize the thought all

black lives matter. What if I raise my

voice? What if I don’t stop speaking?

What if I stop talking back?

Then will you miss me?

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.