21 GUNS
We march, through
humans splashed in flame
rising like gas exhaust.
We march, too busy
walking over crushed
jackfruit and naked
watermelons to see a woman
shot into a honeycomb
still cupping her crying child.
We march, after we
let the child drink from
a bullet mistaken for a breast.
We march, picking seeds
between our teeth and
see her killer block our
way for a smoke. We light
it for him and march.
We come back and raise
our 21 guns for Jimmy who
stopped marching. We forgot that
we gave the child our
bullet before we marched on.
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