El Paso Walmart in Two Parts

I.

He bought only an orange
a single orange that he carried

maybe in a plastic bag,
maybe in his hand.

He peeled it,
licked the juice from his

fingers, from the glass
surface of his phone

where he would post,
by accident, a citation

about him showing up drunk to class
and then replace it

with the file he’d meant to attach:
his manifesto

that said if we can get rid of enough
people, then our way of life will be more

sustainable. This was after
he’d done an hour-long reconnaissance

walk of the store
and before

he wounded 22 people,
killed 23 people,

What does the lesser
number mean to the first

target—a woman
pushing a shopping cart?

II.

There were so many lists to manage—crayons,

bracketed folders, which glue
not that glue

the other glue.
She found it

untenable to have the sound
swelling toward her,

to have the news reels
playing on every surface,

to glance at a rack of basketball
shorts and replace it

in her mind
with a hiding place.

She thought, if we can just get through this fucking list, then this will all be more

sustainable. This was before
she’d scanned the store for emergency exits

and after she’d
dry-heaved in the parking lot

so many people
so many people

she said mama’s fine and
unbuckled her children,

hoisted them into the grid
of the shopping cart.