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
chambered
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
soon