to Senator Johnny Isakson
When I write to you, Johnny,
sometimes by bot, I try
peering into your hound-dog eyes
from afar. I mean, straight
through the machines designed
to screen me out—straight
to your vulnerability: you know,
Parkinson’s, grandson lost—
maybe you feel what it’s like to survive
though you nor I had to dive with
our 2-month old behind shelves
at a Wal-Mart hearing the bop-bop-
bop
slide closer until it’s over you cradling
your son as you die. We didn’t have to
use our bodies to barricade
schoolroom doors when the
bump-
stock killers
closed in. We’re not so terrified of class-
rooms we had to leave college, the rapid
crack-crack-
crack
filling our world so we kill ourselves in-
stead. I see you have an A rating from the N-
RA, but still you said: we have to do everything
within our powers to make sure it never
happens again: that ceaseless popping
won’t stop. Do you feel it, Johnny? Stephen
Romero liked Legos and Batman—he was
just six like Avielle Richman who died at San-
dy Hook. Her father lasted six more years
before he felt spun right off the planet by grief &
the deniers. Being a survivor means it’s a hard
thing—
rising
the mothers, the fathers—sons, daughters,
the friends & the strangers who shield
their own. Can’t you feel the guilt we’re liv-
ing? Because it’s time to rise, Johnny,
every one who
died : our own.
________
Amy Pence authored two collections of poetry, The Decadent Lovely, Armor, Amour, and the hybrid book with Emily Dickinson at its center: [It] Incandescent. She’s published short fiction and non-fiction, lives in Atlanta, and tutors high school students.
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