They’ll tell you a gun in the hand
is worth ten kids in a classroom, teacher
guarding the door. Here he comes,
killer. Something made him so.
A soul too wounded to speak
will write its injury in blood.
Red hieroglyphs read: hello again.
They read: shameful nation.
Uniforms come to net him before he flies.
We send prayers, and our children
school slaughter. Their friends
fall, swallow mouthfuls of ground.