Little Red Fingers - Poem by David McLansky
Little Red Fingers
Why did you have to end my life?
Your gun went 'bang', I screamed with fright?
Was your class Art not good as mine,
Could you not color in the lines?
Were your marks so bad, so poor,
What did I do to make you sore?
I was a child just crouching down
With shaggy hair, gold and brown;
My face so little, my eyes so sad;
What did I do to make you mad?
That you should point your gun at me
And shoot my body, one, two, three?
You hurt my chest, you hurt my leg;
I raised red fingers, I tried to beg;
I thought the red was finger paint,
But it was blood, By the Holy Saints!
You shot me like I was a bug;
I tried to crawl across the rug;
But I ran into Julie Levin's head,
Smashed like a pumpkin, orange red;
And then you shot me in the back,
You shot me through my blue knapsack.
And then I lay so very still,
I fell asleep against my will;
Why did you shoot me, bad, bad man,
When I saw your gun, I should have ran.
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