For Kian--who is every woman's son

This is not the time
for restraint. This is not the time
for speaking in whispers, murmurs,
for silence. Sound
the gong of outrage,
magnify the echoes of woe,
shatter indifference
with the lamentation in dying voices,
let ears split from the cries
of mourning--mother to her son,
oh, bring out the Pieta--
mother, son,
why my son?
Let eyes burn with tears
unshed, let all eyes shed tears--
play a montage
of all that this boy could have been,
paint the sky
with the blood of this child,
this blood splattering the asphalt,
let it not stay confined
to that particular square of street,
consigned to oblivion,
muted by shadow.
Let this child's blood loom
the sight of every man,
let the scarlet spark dead angers.
Let the dead speak.
Let this dead child speak.