You there, on that screen (Poem)

You there, on that screen,

go debate that business
of rights and guns, as if

you have cause to slide
into a chair in the basement

of that church where you
don't belong, are welcomed

anyway, then have your say

and stand and aim and fire
over and over and over

because you claim a right
to breathe that you denied

those nine good black lives.

I watched the guard behind
you, to your right — he looked

your age, if that — how he bit
his lips once and then once

again as the family members
stood, shivered, and forgave

you, and I say: I feel smaller.

Your eyes dart, your lips don't
move. There is nothing wet

on your face, and yet you breathe.

© 2015 Maureen E. Doallas