An unblemished white frame,

clean lines, surround your portrait,
all pure and bright and soft—
floral tablecloth, gold mirror,
cream chandelier, blond waves,
pearl ruffles cascading to form
the skirt of your wedding dress,
and in the gentle pink of your hand,
the black spot of a pistol.
 
Such a dark thing seems out of place
in such a woman’s hand on such a day.
It should be in a classroom,
the customary home for tragedies—
no need for a special occasion.
The Sandy Hook survivors plead
for an end to thoughts and prayers.
Thankfully, I can no longer offer either.
I click through images of dead children,
dry-eyed, but for the ones entrusted
to me, I still memorize the exits,
the hiding places, the barricade materials,
preparing for the day when I will shield
other people’s children.
 
Other people’s children
who will be shot for the not-a-crime
of having guns, except they are not guns,
but cell phones, hammers, drivers’ licenses.
My gentlemen laugh freely in the halls,
unpunished for uncommitted acts.
Meanwhile, in the school board meeting:
These kids might have ankle monitors!
We need more school resource officers!
Can’t we deny them transportation?
White women, too, can shoot first
and ask questions later.
The difference is that no one
will check their hands for a gun.
 
Poem inspired by Lindsay McCrum’s portrait of Liz, San Jose. The description of her work states “biography, not advocacy… the only thing I shoot is a camera”. It also says that people will inevitably project onto portraits, especially those of women holding guns, which I wholeheartedly admit to doing here.