A Shooting in Tucson

A Shooting in Tucson

Eighteen people.

Nineteen people.

Twenty people.

They can’t seem to get the numbers right.

One is too many.

Six people dead for no reason other than

The crime of being in the way.

One man, one gun, and a thirty round clip.

More in the pocket--death on reserve.

This is the American Way.

Moments. Less.

This is all it took to shatter a web of dreams.

There is no way to count the lives

Forever altered in the space of a few

Heartbeats--sped up, stuttered, or stopped.

Every life connected.

How do you trace the lines connecting all this pain?

How do you gather up all the broken pieces?

Every public tragedy reflects on all of us,

The pieces spread far and wide include

Pieces of all of our hearts.

Look inside and see who looks back.

Reach out and make peace there.

That’s where it all begins.

How do you heal a shattered mirror?

Pick up one piece and make it useful.

Chris Kmotorka

1/12/2011

Bad Medicine

Bad Medicine

My hands are stained black,

The leavings of outdated vitamins

Cold treatments and pain killers

Dissolved now in water,

Mixed with coffee grounds to make this slurry

Unpalatable to innocent animals,

Ziploced and placed in the trash--

One way to keep them from our water supply.

A colorful candy bowl of white, blue, pink, and red

Becomes a fluffy pink ambrosia.

What is it in this odd confection

That turns skin black within its creases and

The deadened skin around my nails?

Iron? Magnesium? Chromium picolinate?

Bismuth tablets? Immodium? Or Tums?

Vitamins A through Zinc?

Like pottery glaze in odd reverse, it goes on pretty

But leaves behind a dark and lifeless stain.

What else of sweet-looking beauty have I handled

That leaves me darkened and stained?

Have I embraced them, also, to keep harm from others?

Or have I merely been drawn in and burned

By selfish desires and the ache of the wish

To possess the lovely at the expense of scarring

A selfish and shallow soul?

Chris Kmotorka

1/12/2011