Nineteen Coffins

John Rutherford

May 24, 2022

An AR-15 can hold thirty rounds 

in the magazine (even more after-market),

plenty to do the job, it seems.

It’s a light gun, all things considered,

black steel and plastic, with a trigger

so light a kid can set one off,

or I can, at the range with friends

or a cop can, at a suspect

or an angry young man 

at some kids in Uvalde, Texas.

Does the undertaker shed a tear?

Nineteen little coffins, lined up

silk-covered springs and pillows arranged

so the little bodies can be tucked in, 

to look as if they’re sleeping.

Does the mortician, with all his arts,

his craft honed for grandmothers, great uncles,

the special paint to hide the bullet wounds,

plasticky hands made up with cosmetic-care,

say a soft prayer over every little head?

Nineteen kids, lined up,

waiting for the school bus to come.

Nineteen little coffins, lined up,

waiting for a Cadillac to take them

home.

John Rutherford is a poet writing in Beaumont, Texas. Since 2018, he has been an employee in the Department of English at Lamar University. Since 2014, he has followed the events in Ukraine.