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Broken Song

by Lisa Marie Brodsky


The bells chime on a Friday
32 times; we ring a 33rd
for the one who caused this dent in history,
this earthquake in the heart of Virginia.
We don’t ring bells for he who started this,
who shot the gun, who was deemed a danger
to himself.

After April 20, 1999, weren’t we supposed
to look after the troubled kids? Oh, but this
wasn’t a kid; this was a man out of our radar.
We don’t ring the bells for him.

Don’t misunderstand, I’ve cried
32 tears for them. There are no answers
to the questions we ask; we just ring bells,
open up the doors to Heaven, beckoning

them toward the Light. We cry for them,
think them unfortunate, but we are the ones
left to go to schools with radar-less
boys and girls, men and women; we are
the ones left to go to offices where

a man in the corner has ordered a gun online.
We are the ones playing with fire. Waiting
for fire. The bells
sound for us.

04/21/2007

Posted on 04/21/2007
Copyright © 2019 Lisa Marie Brodsky

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 04/22/07 at 02:30 AM

Hmmmm, yes, very good point. The bells sound for us.

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