My father purses his lips 

Mom’s soft hands clap over her mouth 

As her breath whooshes stabs me with bloody icicles of dread 

All of our eyes shift towards my brother 

An average ten year-old, basketball and Minecraft crazy, 

but a sweet and artistic boy who can show magic with cards

The same age as the children on the news

bodies buried in the springtime  

They will never see their mothers

For these children, there will be no more 

Girl Scout s'mores or fishing at lakes 

Dusting off sleds on Snow Day

Jenny will never get to be a kindergarten teacher, Carlos never a doctor 

One family says that their daughter loved 

to draw faces of loved ones, paint hearts on stones she found, and sculpt presents out of clay.

The news reporter rambles on in her neither cold or dry tone

But her voice is mere noise we are all hushed by could have beens, 

It flies around each of us like a smirking coal black fairy

As we breathe in and out

                         in out

Waiting for another gun to crack the silence