Elizabeth Duran Poet Sonnet

When Columbine Was Just a Flower

I went to a public school near Denver
(pre-Columbine). School then felt more like home
than home, and the real tests were never
on paper. We were Rocky Mountain grown

and no one gave a  what we did at school
as long as we showed up and did our best.
Sometimes friendships didn’t make it out of first period
but our sandwiches were always split 3 ways by lunch.

In the off case it wasn’t, we handled it beyond the track field
next to the pop machine, two fists and a bloody nose,
or a handful of tangled apple-scented hair.
We were never confused about how to settle disputes.

Now they’re all anxiety riddled and scared
wondering if their pop machine runs semi-automatic.

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