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Ode to Three Boys: A Poem on the Chardon Shooting This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

By jlogan, Somerset, KY

I wonder what it sounded like
when you fell.
Eliot said we'd end in a whimper,
so I want to know if you howled.
Did air fall out your mouth
when your head fell back
and your knees fell weak?
Did your body sound like a train?
a ghost?
a gun when you hit the floor?
Was it you that went “Pow!”
not a second trigger.
and was the ground wet when you got there?
or did it wait for you first?
rejecting little fists of blood
until their maker came to meet it,
shaking his bloody brain toward its
open palm.
Open palms can't make fists.
I wish man were more open palm,

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