It’s a break on the page
a smear on the window where the chimney sweep forgot to wipe.
It’s a hitch in the voice.
a tumor of the blood.
Cut away the black cells,
and all will be forgiven

44 blackbirds all in a line.
Only humans get marked graves.
Only people have souls to pray for.

It’s a burned out memory,
a hushed whisper,
a shameful truth passed from lips to ear.
Apologies are all you need in this life.
Penance will come in the next

No, it’s not a secret.
It’s an example.
A red flag to which we point
and say well it happened here,
it can happen anywhere.
Innocent until proven guilty.
Proven by whom?

It’s the making of a name,
an itch forgotten in the scurry of everyday life,
a whisper a the back of the classroom
from the quiet kid
who no one looks at anyway,
who brings a gun to school
just so others will say his name
Remember, remember,
there was horror here once
wearing its favorite mask:
that of a saint
And led, as always, by good intentions