there is blood on the ground.
there is more blood on the ground.
the mothers are weeping.   again.
the fathers are grieving. steeling those
sobs which will only come when they
feel safe to weep.           again.

there is blood on the ground.
there is more danger beating on doors.
stay inside and hope to not hear a knock.
the mothers are ready to take up arms.
the fathers fear for their children. each
whisper a prayer every time the child
must journey out.
they fear and try to assure themselves
the proportional odds, the times they
have returned safely, the certainty that
these things happen to other people.
until it happens to them.     again.

we rage.
we weep.
we light candles.
we buy guns.
we watch the news.
we snap at the grocery clerk because
we are afraid to walk to our car.
we ask questions.
we rail at the silence.
we pray even if we’ve been prayer-less.
we lock our doors.
we turn off the news because we cannot
bear more smoke, fire, shots,
explosions,  loss.        again..

there is blood on the ground.
there is anxiety in the collective soul of our land.
there is the reach of community and reminders of
what we really believe butting up against the
grief.  and we commit to good. we rekindle
kindness. we extend ourselves to strangers.
we do the impossible and face the fear and
stand up, stretch out our arms and put
them around a shoulder that is closest.
we become, together, more than we are alone.
again.
mary anne radmacher ©