Mo cuishle / My Pulse

Muscle and beat,
   adrenaline and sweat;
the urge for attachment
   within the yearn to forget

a life that you’re told to
   for one as you want to,
must do, and yet:

the callow confidence of a
bullet and the unleavened
cowardice of a machine
that sprays them out
like bloody tears.

A craven warrior and
the contortions of a god
who, for all his vaunted power,
cannot but be washed in shame.

What have you done?
The blood of our brothers
and sisters cries out
from the dancing floor
to the city’s asphalt.

Vanquished, for the moment,
are the loving many
by the fearful few,
and there are tears
and hushed voices,

but what then must we do?

[for the Pulse of Orlando]

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