There Are No Exit Wounds

Where there are no children, there is no sound,
no toys, no stones, no girls, no boys, no rules;
there are no exit wounds on the playground,

no secrets can be spilt from mouths unbound
by oaths of blood and spit and ridicule;
where there are no children, there is no sound

like song, no crowing calls, no laughter drowned
by pupils sharpened into surgeon’s tools.
There are no exit wounds on the playground

and shameful explanations just confound
the comfort sought. Steel swings and slides are cruel
where there are no children. There is no sound,

stale air turns slate as darkness creeps around
the shadows cast by flagpole, fence, and school;
there are no exit wounds on the playground

but we know where they are. They can be found
by databases, statisticians, fools.
Where there are no children, there is no sound;
there are no exit wounds on the playground.

G. M. Palmer

G. M. Palmer

G.M. Palmer lives with his wife and daughters on a poodle farm in North Florida. His work has been at E-Verse Radio, Tahoma Literary Review, Raintown, and elsewhere. When he isn't running social events at the West Chester Poetry Conference, he's watching movies. Find him at gmpalmer.com & @gm_palmer.
G. M. Palmer

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Author: G. M. Palmer

G.M. Palmer lives with his wife and daughters on a poodle farm in North Florida. His work has been at E-Verse Radio, Tahoma Literary Review, Raintown, and elsewhere. When he isn't running social events at the West Chester Poetry Conference, he's watching movies. Find him at gmpalmer.com & @gm_palmer.