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| Parents and students arrived at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., on Sunday for the start of what officials are calling a “phased reopening” of the school. Credit David Santiago/Miami Herald, via Associated Press and The New York Times, February 25, 2018 |
You know you have to go back in,
that day, still sticky and unscabbed.
The border between the past and now is thin.
Few you know have stood where you have been.
Your journal entries wander, the writing crabs;
You know you have to go back in.
You stagger in the web—the whole thing spins—
talking heads with agendas—all the blab.
The border between the past and now is thin.
You hear the pop-pop-pop, the chilling din,
the screams of those now still, on slabs.
You know you have to go back in,
your soul benthic, nothing but a fin
above the waves, a periscope, camouflaged, drab.
The border between the past and now is thin.
You enter, jaw tight, leading with your chin,
by turns belligerent and undone, seeking hands to grab.
You know you have to go back in,
though the border between the past and now is thin.
Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. Her poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, Rattle, Redbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat's Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, What Rough Beast, and more.
