Today is the day he is going to die
Though he fights with his mother over bread not crackers,
Honey not jam, runs late to catch the bus
laces flying, bag spilling, slams himself next to others
all not ready to die, though all will, leaving behind
coloured pencils, textbooks, a soft toy, parents,
friends, teachers, neighbours, lives just begun.

Today is the day she will see the dead,
but she has time to spare, breakfast eaten, homework done,
neighbour’s puppy walked, new baby sister kissed, and she wears 
her new sneakers purple and pink as a talisman
all the better to run from the horror of crumbled small bodies —
the teacher, blood-splattered, crouched over her friends
that weird guy on the bus all dead.

Today is the day he will receive the dead, hands steady, respectful
with tiny bodies in dungarees, hair corn-braided, socks frilled, 
wide ribbons, rucked white knickers, t shirts decorated with cartoon figures
dressed for a day at school, an afternoon with friends hanging upside down
on the playground bars, burning bare legs on hot slides. He will smooth their clothes, 
wipe blood, biscuit crumbs, and tears, read a last note to a mum 
scrawled on a scrawny arm — I love you.

Today is the day that Americans will cry that enough is enough
that no more should die, that more must be done, and
television, radio, social media commentators will prattle, condemn,
analyse and I will watch New Zealand’s Prime Minster, pink suited, glorious
talk to Jeremy Corbett of decisive action, pragmatism, 
a terrorist attack on New Zealand mosques, and
wonder if today will be the day when they will stop saying no more,
No more, no more, and then doing nothing. 
Again.