Poetry can take us to places that political and analytical language cannot. Some language slips through the screens of culture, gender, religion, nation, patriotism, vengeance and justice and simply speaks the hard planked heart language of mother, father, elder, infant and mentor. Here is an example of such language by a poet named Naomi Shihab Nye. This is an excerpt of a longer poem that speaks to every grief heavy heart of the victim families of our times. She begins with: “There is no stray bullet sirs.” and addresses the world of loss particularly in the fourth stanza.

But this bullet had no innocence, did not

wish anyone well, you can’t tell us otherwise

by naming it mildly, this bullet was never the friend 

of life, should not be granted immunity

by soft saying–friendly fire, straying death-eye

Why have we given the wrong weight to what we do?*

*Everything Comes Next Collected and New Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye

I consider questions like hers to be the epitome of ‘good’; painful as it is.