I did not know her.

I only know
that somewhere
a three-year-old
has entered a world
without her father,

and I have entered a world
that permitted it.

Do not ask me
for balance.

Do not ask me
to wait
until every statement
has been polished
into something
that does not offend.

I am offended
by a child
who will spend the rest of her life
walking toward a door
that cannot open
the way it did yesterday.

I am offended
that cruelty
can dress itself
in paperwork,
in uniforms,
in briefings,
in language
washed
until blood disappears
from every sentence.

My mouth
cannot wash it clean.

My mouth
fills with iron.

My mouth
learns that prayer
and rage
are sometimes
the same shape.

God,

what am I supposed to do
with hands
that cannot reach
through history
and pull one bullet,
one order,
back into the chamber
of things
that never happened?

I stand here,
knowing
that somewhere
a child’s world
has already divided
into before
and after.

I stand here
with nothing
equal
to that fact,

except my refusal
to let it pass
into silence.

I refuse
to become accustomed
to this.

I refuse
to let my tongue
learn the grammar
that makes such things
sound ordinary.

If all I have tonight
is anger,

then let it bloom.

Let it flower
so brightly
that no one
can look away.