By now, we are used to the mourning.

Television screens broadcast funerals to the nation,
so that while we are divided in life,
we can be united by death.

We hold a minute's silence
and believe that it is enough
for steady reflection on tragic events.
After sixty seconds, we get on with our lives,
comfortable in the knowledge
that we care, and have given witness to
our concerns.

We write poetry for the fallen, the missing, the scarred,
elegies of such noble beauty, capable of graceful evocation
of another's pain, another's maddening, unanswerable torture,
with the belief that their hell can be strapped down and lashed
with the limpid tongues of words and expression.

We petition online as a whimsy,
and forward e-mails about the daily news
so that we can do our bit for the war effort,
for the manhunt, for the grief of another nation.
We feel the need to show that we care.
That we are not heartless in the face of despair.
Our blood holds traces of empathy.

We wear ribbons to support a cause
and say 'I do my bit for charity,
I've dropped a penny in the rattle tin,
so behold my lapel and know
that you have my support'.

But none of your fucking poems are going to find Madeleine McCann.
None of your countless blog banners will help free Alan Johnston.
None of your twisted ribbons will bring back the Virginia Tech Dead.

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