Oh Murderous Monster's Mother, who will weep for you

whose son's skull lay in no fewer shards

than that sorority whore,

or the captain of the football team,

or the physics prof who flung himself before the door?

With careworn breath do you recall

his simmering, sullen high school days

-his father called it just a phase-

But even then, what you would have given

to smooth the darkness from

his otherwise unfurrowed brow

rewind him somehow

shrink him down

watch him drop the glock

shed the trenchcoat

and pick up his blue stuffed dog.

As every tsking pundit

twists a knife into your gut

despoiling your memory of his keening smile

opening his Christmas Xbox,

who will hold you as you groan and rock

while a nation curses your toxic womb?