Recessional by Elaine Schleiffer

I am not a silent poet

Their faces surround us momentarily, a barrage
of what their beauty had been. We see them
while scanning posts on social media, we see them
over our breakfasts on the tv, their eyes and mouths
present from the treadmill screen and the headlines
we skim while looking for the weather.

They are a life’s cascade of moments—youth, graduation,
a birthday party, a staff photo, a wedding—slung
into a single day or two of ours. And after Aurora
and after Pulse and after Newtown and after Charleston
and after Fort Hood and Virginia Tech and Columbine

the faces begin to blur together, their lives faded
into our arc of tragedy, policy, insolvency.

We do not talk about all the ways they saw themselves—
no one will admit to judging a dead millennial
for their selfie, a dead blonde for her tiny dogs,
a dead mom for her dated haircut, a dead…

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