The Invisible Heart of Everything

From the Frontier of the Classroom

A block from the school a man opened fire
into to a parked car. He fled. On campus, his cousin
sat on the floor, locked in, his top button buttoned.

And this small, rural school doesn’t know what
to make of it. I bring up Hawthorne, and Ellison,
and Conrad’s river. We read and talk about Eliot,

and the kids say smart things, and I usually don’t
say kids, but students. Then the weekend
of homecoming at a party in a packed apartment,

a kid, fourteen, entered a room and flipped off
the lights and opened fire with a gun someone
put in his hands, taught him to point, pull, stuff

I never learned. Though, I can recall my father
taking apart his rifles and oiling the barrels,
in the basement. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him

fire a gun, actually aim and pull the trigger at anything.
But I know he was good, I’ve seen the medals—
knowledge is the dark, red, invisible heart of everything.