blunt force trauma

we sit crosslegged upon
a red gingham tablecloth
laid neatly on the grass
beneath a majestic elm tree

a tall bottle of coca-cola
and a basket full of peanutbutter sandwiches
and soft sugary chocolate chip cookies
made by the mother of one dead girl

the chaos of the moment
trapped now in our tears
with our words and dreams,
still our hunger speaks rudely

the want of miracles and better prizes
of the solution to this rubiks cube of a mess
it gnaws at our bellies
while the coroner uses a scalpal on our children
to determine the cause of death.