One by one, they file into the darkened chamber.

Their feet don’t make a sound.

Down the hallowed halls,

Through the locked doors,

Into our heart.

Small children, single file,

With a solemnity unnatural in kids their age.

Teenagers without chips on their shoulders.

Young parents, young teachers, young mothers

Who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time,

Or in love with the wrong person.

Grandmothers who were doing nothing

But praying in church

Or buying cornflakes

Or watching a movie.

Grandfathers who threw their bodies in front of children

Not their own.

They file in and take seats.

When the seats are taken, the aisles fill

And the gallery.

Behind the rostrum.

They sit at your desk.

And yours.

And yours.

And wait.

And watch.

And listen.

They’ve heard enough thoughts and prayers.

What they want is life.

As they wait, they wonder

When did the rights of a machine,

An object made to kill,

Become more important than

The rights of a child to grow up

The rights of a mother to live free of fear

The rights of a grandmother to die in bed

Surrounded by those they love

Instead of in a street, church, grocery store, theatre,

School.

When the doors open,

And the men in power file in

To repeat the same old lies

And cast the same old votes

The furies will be watching

And waiting.

The furies will remember.