As a former Episcopalian, I still read Sunday mornings The Great Vigil of Easter in their The Book of Common Prayer. I remind myself of what Christianity is all about. I think of those 59 souls assassinated and wonder where they are? We have yet another day of infamy. And more to come, until Christ comes again to justly rule men on this planet. Hence, I paste one I have before, a true account:
After the Club
Some confuse a fist with a heart.
A trigger with a passport. A bullet with a lesson.
His was a hollow-point that hemorrhaged
from his bowels after he knocked
over a glass of water on a club table.
In green light he was a fluttering Luna Moth
who rose before EMS arrived.
Later in group his mom hemorrhaged tears
Over a fucking glass of spilt water.
The minute hand deepens her wound
as she treads on her Möbius strip. Paper cuts
crisscross her wrists.
What words, what touch
can heal the flow of blood and water
from her pierced side?