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How many times will I sit on the floor of my office, in the dark, writing about the losses our country continues to suffer, one child at a time, one woman at a time? 
It is my birthday today [or, it was when I started this post on Thursday]. I didn't plan to have time to write, but time made itself. My to-do list of papers to grade and write and edit grows longer. Somewhere near here, another person's to-do list becomes irrelevant, as irrelevant as entire bedrooms filled with teenagers' clothes. 
I tell my students, if you speak you'll be heard! And I remember how much I used to like digging forts in snow drifts when I was little, how I liked to make new spaces then protect them. I remember watching people like me file out of a school in Colorado. I remember watching my teachers and thinking, what can you do?
I keep writing poems on my office floor. I am listening to the young adults speak in Florida and everywhere else in this country. 
It’s the sound of nobody shoot…

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