Guns become soundless 

when their ringing

is omnipresent,

when their bullets 

are metronomic, 

when their tragedy

tastes prosthetic, 

grieved in phrases 

between sips

of morning coffee, 

lukewarm on our tongue. 


Their sounds 

were shrill with virus 

long before our illness 

forced us to listen. 


We think we know 


when bodies 

have been 

in lockdown 

for so long,

their chokehold is 

an army knot 

strung into the polyester 

of our legacy,

their gasps 

gusts of air 

behind claps 

of a waving flag.