Pulse, 2016

One by one
silent as wax
altar candles
prayers rise
as each light
dies out
like a ritual
closing  worship
except
the acolyte
has a rifle
the warm
drip drip
is the blood
of innocents
and the sacred
gathering
that finally
finally comes
to an end
is a slaughter.

News Links (find out more):  NPR, CNN, NY Times

Audio Link (hear Anne read the poem): SoundCloud

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