Today at Sandy Hook

Someone saw him

fold himself into himself

a roiling knotted fury

coiled tight

in tense density

of unbalanced neurons

like a collapsing star

imploding before the burst.

Someone heard awful intimations

whispered in a pillow

in a bedroom

and a darkness

thick.

The secret metal-shine

was found

by someone

an underbed collection

more monstrous than nightmare.

Someone

heard the slide-click

of bullets

lining cartridges,

flutter-valves of nervous energy

trembling between atria

and ventricles.

Load

Unload

Load—

Someone knew his mother's

anger and remorse

the ache of divorce,

and knew

what words she would have said,

given another minute

at breakfast this morning

when his gun

addressed her face.

Someone granted him

safe traveling mercies

though it were easy enough

to allow

just once

a flat tire

just this once

the inexplicable swerve

and roadmetal screech

of a one-car

incidental,

a fleet tweet,

an unshared Facebook post,

a blip

on Channel 12

between

Local Hero Home From Afghanistan

     Surprises Kids at Christmas Dance

and Walmart To Lower Prices on iPhone 5.

His gun could have jammed—

it happens sometimes

at the rifle range

or when the meth addict

has cornered you in the master bath.

And if someone

wanted to remain

anonymous

it could have been arranged,

it could have seemed

a lucky failure

of mechanism,

everyone breathing

that hot breath

we breathe

when something dire

has slid through the parking lot

missing us by icy inches.

The Bushmaster

could have

exploded

at that first shot

in the bedroom

or the second

at the school,

ending his torment

before giving birth

to theirs.

Or someone could have

balanced the chemicals

that caused his illness.

 

But someone stood by—

the pin

was permitted

to fire

gas

to expand

the laws of inertia and kinetic energy

to prevail.

We might conclude

this is someone's way

to observe

from the sideline,

take measurements,

assess character,

isolate variables

and sow discord,

watching the ants

scurry beneath the glass

to repair collapsed tunnels

or scramble to escape

floodwaters

funneled in

to prove a theory

to the bright starry pupil

about the motives

and limits

of worship.

But what of Joshua

who needed more time

for herem,

more time to devote

the lives of cattle

asses and sheep,

men and women and children

babies on the teat,

devote this divine property

denoted as such

by utter destruction?—That

time was granted

by someone.

Was this euphemism

for genocide

counted so worthy

that someone

stopped the planet

from spinning?

Was Canaan

so wretched

wicked

wrong

such intervention

was required?

 

That one

could have barred the door

at Sandy Hook

or hemmed it round with angels,

allowing the

suicide

to proceed

without delay,

sparing

Connecticut

a loss so wrenching

Presidents

weep.

It is

what we

mortals

would have done

had we

strength and clarity

to go with our

compassion.

Were these children,

as those

of Canaan,

fit for no end but

annihilation?

Someone knew

their names,

the number

of hairs on their head

and baby teeth

in their mouth

before

and after

the splatter

and shatter

over desks,

bursting like currants

ripe between thumb and forefinger.

Someone could tell us

to the microliter

the volume

of blood

bubbling up out of skull-holes

pooling like a plague of Moses

beneath the Chart

of Perfect Attendance—

and knew

what hopes they had for Friday

and what anxieties

about tenths place and hundredths place

and how the fat cat sat on a bat's hat and made it flat

and who will play Four-Square at recess

Or trying please please just let me hold it until the bus gets home 
     today, not like yesterday.

Their hopes

for tomorrow

known as well,

and the day after,

third Sunday

of Advent

the swirl of lights,

candles, and greens

dimly penetrating

with awareness

of being weak, but

and yes Jesus loves me, yes loves me, yes loves

me for.

Someone stood aside

for Adam Lanza

and waits

now

for those left
to seek protection

to say nighttime prayers

of now I lay me

do not slay me

Slay me

Slay me

—Waits to hear carolers sing,

Yea Lord, we greet thee

Lorn

This

Oh Christ!

Mass mourning

Come adore

Herem

Come adore

Herem

Cry cry 

oh Lord.

Elijah mocked the Queen's prophets

with laughter:

Baal is

so fail,

call all you will,

he is

silent and still.

But mine!

Herem.