My husband told me he has worked hard
not to know what happened
in Newtown.
“You mean, six-year-olds?”
“Yes. No. I know what happened.
Don’t tell me any more.”
I don’t blame him.
I don’t blame myself
for going on with my daughter’s
birthday dinner after
getting a text asking
“Are you OK?”
I hadn’t heard yet
about Boston.

It is not okay that these
things become commonplace
but I don’t blame us
for waiting to take in the news.
It is too much.

People say
we need
pictures of the dead
horribly maimed
to spur us to action.

My husband says
the world has always been like this.

I don’t know.
I don’t know what to do but go on.
I don’t exactly regret
having children
and giving them this world.
I can’t regret them
but I regret this world.

They plow into the house
interrupting my poem
cool air skimming off their skins
throwing boots in a corner
marveling at discounts
reveling in wasting their vacations
with video games.

Eliza sings like a contestant.
Lena looks like a model.
They make me hope
despite any news.
I don’t know if good triumphs over evil
because more evil comes
inevitably.
But so do children.