The Massacre

Sometimes,
I wonder what they all must think of me.
Sometimes,
I wonder if I can face hearing
the sound of splitting glass,
raining on tender skin
as they each describe the massacre
the mending
the brutal disasters we lived; like paupers,
distressed,
lost and found
wanting,
everything
and loving nothing purer
than this sin.

I wonder,
If I could see the light
Though such darkness,
If the sooty sound
Of pain,
Would go down
Raw, bleeding throats
As easy as this.