Sandy Hook

Sandy Hook
by Dennis Mahagin
Of late he sleeps a lot,
the last narcotic, pure and
simple aperture, paid for
not bought.
Slumber is a jungle
gym, where sundered
mothers rise up, impossibly
kind zombies turning
bullets into Tootsie Rolls
of the mind, sugary steam
a greensward
in early morning; discarded
lemon squirt guns, go melt
in the sun …
twelve, sometimes
thirteen hours
at a shot, now
the job on hold, his own
mother in a nursing home.
Purple mist and twitching
limbs, that stick man
shooter, the dealer, knowing
no echo, of him… “Thing is
see I can’t stop thinking
about those kids,”
he mutters at the pale
unshaven reflection
in glass: eye gunk,
lids strung at half mast.
It’s a little past noon
and shudders
— be awake

0 thoughts on “Sandy Hook

  1. This is great. Getting inside anyone’s mind–even the murderer’s in his big sleep–in response to the massacre. Weaving in heroin addiction and quasi-innocent playgrounds. Waking up from that “slumber” into horrible reality. Makes me shudder, all over again. Love “eye gunk, lids strung at half mast.”

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