John LaPine

 
 

A POEM IN WHICH NO ONE DIES

A boy in a hoodie moonwalks home from the store.
Skittles scatter into their bag.

A policeman breathes life into a boy,
lifts him from the sidewalk. Shouts, you Hey.

A twelve-year-old boy plays with a toy gun in the park. Water
enters the chamber. A squad car shifts into reverse, then parks.

A black man reaches for his wallet, says he’s carrying
legally. The cop starts his car and turns off the lights.

In Washington D.C., dozens of black women appear.
Bodies rise from the Atlantic.

And in New York City, hundreds of men and women
ascend to the tops of towers.

Someone dials 1-1-9, and the door slams
on twenty elementary school children, six adults.

From an Orlando nightclub, 49 people return home, single. They wipe
glitter and makeup from each other’s faces, say “tonight, it kill Let’s.”

In Aurora, movie-goers watch the Joker help
Batman dismantle bombs and rebuild Gotham.

In a Texas church, black children and grandmothers scream
in joy as 450 bullets return to magazines.

From the 32nd floor of a Vegas hotel,
a crowd hears 1,100 pops and begins to dance.

Someone deletes a viral video of the event.
An Uber driver picks a boy up from school in Parkland.