Wednesday Morning
I count twelve police cars
flying past me on the highway
four sheriff vans
three ambulances
three firetrucks
another dozen or so unmarked vehicles
swarming now from every direction
sirens. . . . blue spinning. . . . high alert. . . . red flashing
traffic caught in their spider’s web
and I know
I know as now every American knows
no longer if
but when
and when is now
when is now in my city
my city in a war zone
war everywhere
everywhere
now
I remember when my daughter was in lockdown
for fear of a shooter at her hospital
there are no thoughts or prayers that undo those moments
our enemies are not unfamiliar
they sit in legislatures
counting contributions
praying
praying never to be us
by Nancy Hatch Woodward
Editor’s Note: This poem’s lack of punctuation and varying line lengths heightens the rushing emotion felt as the reader moves through the gut-wrenching imagery of an ordinary world gone mad.
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