Afternoon Mourning.

They worshipped:

Like babies, maybe, vulnerable and hopeful

God send us more goodness

Or maybe they thought about sex

Or taxes or or what snacks they would have next

Doritos, maybe.

Or their families. Maybe they thought

about their families.

And then, next, their blood

The selfsame blood that hurries

Under my fingertips that tap-type now

Was pulled out, on the floor, on the ground,

Out onto the Earth. Stolen from holy body-home

In which it should have still flowed.

May their memories

and so many memories

too many memories

be a blessing for different days.

 

 

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