The dead have been counted

For now.

Most are already cut up

Properly to record cause of death,

As good governance requires

Some may have been citizens,

Some may have been liars.

 

Relatives that are left behind

Have a long wait outside mortuary

To collect the leftovers of corrective bigotry.

 

One crumpled granny mutters:

“Save your scalpels and your gauze;

We know the cause; it was neither

Stone nor sword, nor bullet. It was hate.

That virus is not in your medical book.

It lodges in an infected word and look.

Only children have the antidote

To that strain. Notice how, even as

The fires still smolder and body parts

Fester, they are out again, playing

In the common lane. So, do please

Let us bury or burn our dead.

Our tears have dried, our hopes

Are cinders, but our children

Have to be fed. Let the minister

Declare normalcy and admonish forgetting,

While we wait for the next blood-letting.

We just plead: let that not be too soon—

Not before our children are somewhat grown.”

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