Enough Is Enough By Eileen Huang Poem by David Bowden

Psalm told through nine-gun deaths in America

Wednesday afternoon and a boy tongues the barrel of an AR-15, brewing a spit full of hate. A thousand miles away, I walk out of 5th period chemistry and America spills its blood bone-dry until its river runs empty, until the stars on the flag look more like exit wounds.

Weeks later, and my neighbor swaggers out with his new Remington. Says he uses it to hunt animals. You should've seen the one I got yesterday. A pregnant doe.
Do you know what happens to a body when a bullet passes through it? How it transfers the blast to the rest of your organs? How a bullet cans still ricochet once it's inside of you? Wednesday afternoon and you're an animal hunted.
But Cain killed Abel with a rock. People kill people. Don't think I don't know this parable: Cain killed one man, not seventeen, not fifty-nine, not twenty-six-don't think I haven't read my scripture. Cain killed a man, not a baby, not someone with more bullet holes in their body than years in their life. Don't think I haven't studied my history: America was not built on democracy but kindled by musket fire.
Mommy, I'm ok, but all my friends are dead. People kill people-you think we don't know?
There is so much we can do. We can crouch under desks, we can bolt our doors shut. Pray he won't hear us.

You say you will be praying. Tell me: Did you pray for Alyssa? Did you pray for Jamie? Did you pray for Peter? Did you pray for Trayvon? Did you pray for-
I fear children: their hands always dripping with mucus, their bellies full of so much ache. I fear pregnant women: the way their stomachs stretch taut and sacred. I don't want children anymore. I don't want to grieve a body smaller than mine. I don't want to lose a baby.
Wednesday afternoon and America's rivers run holy with its own blood, ebbing like a flag at half-mast. From Parkland, to Newtown, to Baltimore, don't you see? You've raised a generation fluent in mourning. And these streams, these veins, they stretch from city to city. Trust me: We know their names. We remember what the water forgets.

this poem is one of my favorites Witten by -Eileen Huang