SNIPER ON THE ROOF OF THE STUDENT UNION
A rifle at this distance is
a weapon refracting
sun like a disco ball, trigger
curves as clouds do
in a cloudless sky
sights make meters small
where bodies could open
like sunflowers on the green
at one signal. Who taught
you to love what you do?
A prayer circle becomes
a red target, a cadence
is a war cry, a mask
must mean villainy or
your paradigm breaks.
The student union is papered
with flyers for spring fest
and varsity baseball, the sniper
is papered with kevlar, stacks
of chemistry and American
literature textbooks as a gun
rest. Under the same sky,
mass graves and shredded
cities, we put our hands up.