Our Children

I drop my son off at kindergarten. 
The children’s faces peer from the windows of his classroom onto the front yard of the school. 
Not their real faces, but cutout photos of them. 
I can’t help thinking of the target outlines at a firing range.
 
The children peer from the windows of the classroom onto the front yard of the school. 
I drive by the school midmorning and see them playing on the kindergarten playground. 
I can’t help thinking of targets at a firing range. 
Their small bodies hurtle through the air on the swings.   
            
I drive by the school and see the children playing on the kindergarten playground. 
Their strong, skinny legs power the tricycles. 
Their small bodies glide through the air on the swings. 
They whoop on the slide. 
 
Their strong, skinny legs propel the tricycles. 
I think, How easy it would be . . .         
They shriek on the slide. 
The holes in the chain link fence are so wide, right next to the sidewalk.
 
I think, How easy it would be . . .         
Every evening I feel relief when he comes home and shows me his crooked handwriting on the slips of paper where he practiced writing his name. 
The holes in the chain link fence are so wide, right next to the sidewalk. 
He asks me, Mama, did you know that your eyes are connected to your brain?
 
Every evening, I feel relief when he comes home and shows me his crooked handwriting on the slips of paper where he practiced writing his name. 
And I think, Here he is. 
He asks me, Mama, did you know that your eyes are connected to your brain? 
I think, If anything ever happens to you, I would . . . 
 
And I think, Here he is. 
Today, for now, it is not my pain.
I think, If anything ever happens to you, I would . . .                             
Is this not my pain?
 
Not the children’s real faces, photos of them. 
I drop my son off at kindergarten.