On the day of a school shooting
a metaphor falls from its nest,
keeps falling.
Meanwhile, someone chucks a stone
from their car, shotgun side, shattering
your kitchen window and Mother
just standing there in her apron, stunned
as a bluebird
in flour-sack floral, the floor
a perfect mirror
of scintillating teeth.
Elsewhere on a sidewalk
a commuter trips over his own
polished shoes and curses, sightless,
the shards of sunlight so stark and so white,
there is nothing to be seen.
All the words want to be weighty
and sink like stone but instead
you are late for something.
The transit bus is boarding
and the scene
from your tinted window is this :
the wrecked
body
of a fawn
lies in the
sparkling grass,
legs spindly
and new
as a boy’s,
the color of
tawny cream
and sunkissed
knees, freckles
of white
light.
An unknown
passenger
bends to shroud
the shattered body
in her cardigan, blue.
The light bends
with her.
And what of Mother?
She is the shroud,
she is the nest,
agape,
bewildered,
knees swaying
in an imperceptible dance,
broom in hand, gently
brushing glass
from the kitchen floor.
keeps falling.
Meanwhile, someone chucks a stone
from their car, shotgun side, shattering
your kitchen window and Mother
just standing there in her apron, stunned
as a bluebird
in flour-sack floral, the floor
a perfect mirror
of scintillating teeth.
Elsewhere on a sidewalk
a commuter trips over his own
polished shoes and curses, sightless,
the shards of sunlight so stark and so white,
there is nothing to be seen.
All the words want to be weighty
and sink like stone but instead
you are late for something.
The transit bus is boarding
and the scene
from your tinted window is this :
the wrecked
body
of a fawn
lies in the
sparkling grass,
legs spindly
and new
as a boy’s,
the color of
tawny cream
and sunkissed
knees, freckles
of white
light.
An unknown
passenger
bends to shroud
the shattered body
in her cardigan, blue.
The light bends
with her.
And what of Mother?
She is the shroud,
she is the nest,
agape,
bewildered,
knees swaying
in an imperceptible dance,
broom in hand, gently
brushing glass
from the kitchen floor.
March 2025
Danielle McMahon lives in PA with her family. She is a mom, occasional poet, and enthusiastic gardener.
Art: Claire Tang, Pushing Up Daisies. Oil on canvas.