It’s a break on the page,
a smear of soot on the window
where the chimney sweep forgot to clean
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 at 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.