we carry our dead like children
lay them out in the plaza and encircle them
in the frost the snow bewildered
as if none of us yet knew
it was so easy to die
everyone still hopes
they will lie there and then get up
for what should we tell their moms
what to tell their children
who will tell them the worst
a person runs to meet a bullet
with a wooden shield
and a hot heart
and a head in a ski helmet
full of blood
mom, I’ve got my hat on he shouts into a dead phone
mom, his hat is too thin the bullet hisses