my body, my choice (?)

The rain nipping at my face, sign slipping out of my arms, “my body, my choice” making my voice hoarse, I wondered why I had been dragged here. The purple poncho we had bought especially sagged below my shoulders, and I gazed wide-eyed at the noise, the flashing colors, and the occasional naked person on the peripherals of my vision. Shouting especially fervently was my mother- who, ironically, had denied me the choice of staying in our warm, dry home. Nevertheless, I chanted; not yet understanding, I let my voice cry, sign bob, outrage- at my mother, at the rain, and at something bigger- join that of the crowd. Now, my older, wiser self knows the nature of the protest, but I still don’t understand why our voice, our signs, our outrage- didn’t change anything.

We shouldn't be scared

I shouldn’t be scared.

My ear shouldn’t be

glued to the computer screen, volume on

five percent, brightness even

lower but even through my

tightly

shut

lids

I can still see the

faint

red

of

blood.

I shouldn’t

be

scared.

I shouldn’t be plotting, I shouldn’t be

glancing at the door and

biting my nails and

practicing my

zig-

zag, computer keys

clack-

clacking as each

suggestion pops up and I add it to my

radar,

engraving the endless lines of

precautions and

signs into my

brain, I

shouldn't

be

scared.

I shouldn’t be scared,

not of the

door not of the

speakers not of the

tightness of the

classroom,

no,

I should be nervous for

due dates and

numbers and

papers

but now, on

this

day, there is only

one

date

May 24, 2022,

only

one

number,

21

only

one

paper

that

matters.

The one that says that an

eighteen-

year-

old can walk into a

store and buy a

gun that can kill

twenty-one

people that can kill

nineteen children that can kill

two teachers on

May 24, 2022.

The one that says that he could

walk into a

school and open

fire and a girl could call 911

again and again and the

police would stand outside and

twenty-one

people

died on

May 24, 2022.

The one that says that this same

eighteen-

year-

old would get kicked out of a bar, fingers not even

grazing a

bottle of

beer but instead he could get his hands on a

shiny

new

AR-15, now it’s

slick with

blood they covered themselves in

blood to hide,

they

shouldn't

have

been

scared.

He shouldn't have had that gun.

They should've said he couldn't have had that gun.

They say it’s not

black and

white but all I see is

red.

They say it’s not that easy,

not that easy to get his

hands on that

gun but he

did, and so did

so

many

others

this year,

this year

isn’t over yet.

They ask

why she opened the

door.

“Doors can protect us from guns,” they say, “have one door and keep it shut.”

but a

piece

of

wood should not be protecting us from

death.

Laws should.

We

shouldn’t

be

scared.

I am lucky,

my door, it’s

thicker than some

others’

I live in a place,

I go to a school, where we used to

giggle during

lockdown drills because that could

never

happen

here,

right? But after that

night

I

don’t

giggle during

lockdown drills anymore.

I tremble in

fear. We all

tremble in

fear. We

are

scared.

We shouldn’t be scared.

If I were courageous

If I had courage, I could do anything-

in poetry, I can do anything-

in theory, I could be courageous so I could do anything-

like,

climb a mountain,

mountains,

crawl, climb up

trees

scale the

leaves

until I’m at the

tippy

top,

reaching through the branches to help up another before they

drop-

drop,

into the below, where, if I were courageous

I would surely go,

diving into the deep blue turning

darker and

darker, the pink of the sun gleaming above

no longer,

no longer, as I fall-

if I were courageous, I would embrace the fall, not,

curl up into a little helpless ball and, like hail, bounce across the earth.

Insignificant.

Broken.

Small.

No, if I were courageous, I would spread my arms out wide and

glide,

like a sugar glider, flying squirrel a bird, into the

sky,

not worried that the hawk would spot me for its prey,

if I were brave, my posture would say

no

way,

I would

scare it away,

not a big bird could sway

me,

not a gust of wind could shake

me,

if I were courageous, I would be stronger than

all

of

that.

Above

all of that,

floating in space my voice not mere

static,

my words crisp and clear,

hello?

earth?

I’m out here,

do you hear?

Hello?

If I were courageous,

I would say,

hello,

my o,

rebounding,

bouncing, not

shrinking,

slinking back into its home, nestling into my throat,

sometimes I

talk

too

much,

but when it matters, I can’t

talk

enough, eyes-

they are no less piercing than knives,

but with my hand held

high

over my head like a shield I could

fly

again.

If I were courageous, I would never touch the

ground

again.

Again.

Again I play back every

mistake, every

error,

if I were courageous, I would make plenty of errors and say,

hey, it’s

ok,

not everything rests in an

A,

A+, I don’t have to do

so

much,

too

much-

but when I think like that, something inside me turns to

mush,

everything,

I can’t do

anything,

anything-

if I were courageous, I could do

anything.