My skin stings as the news spreads
of a gunman and more
slain children. Suddenly
it is years ago and I am naked again
in my home when the man breaks in with his trigger.
He tells me he will pull it if I scream,
says he will put a bullet in my baby
if I scream, so I hold my breath

for years. Silently,
silently, all I do is dream
of unzipping my spine and hanging
my skin up like a suit.
And wouldn’t you? Each time
I hold her, I am holding her raw
against my bare nerves
and I am running us away. Every morning

we drive to school.
Hear me now. What I am screaming
is I must flay back my skin each morning
to kiss her goodbye. I must look down
at my feet, gutted with grief,
and ask them if we are still running
from gunmen or if today
they give us a break. Or maybe

my daughter is told to hide
her shards of body beneath a desk
for me to collect in a coffin so small
it cannot contain my vomit.
Every afternoon.
Every relentless afternoon
I pull up to the building
and find out what I am able to take—
what I am able to take home.