poetry

my son has no taste for paintball

my son has no taste for paintball

My son sheds his year-round shorts and short-sleeved tee
for long pants and long sleeves,
what he’s been told to wear
to lessen the sting of inevitable impacts.
Hood up, he looks the stereotypical hoodlum,
even further from his usual self.

At the end of the party my teacher husband texts
we’re never hosting something like this.
I picture the boys covered in paint,
ask if his sneakers are ruined.
No, they’re fine
he writes
but it’s a bunch of kids
in full military tactical gear
shooting at each other.

too real
too raw

He comes home
all in one piece on the outside;
inside, rattled, by more than
the way the bullets grazed skulls,
more than the sinking feeling
of pulling a trigger for the very first time.

These boys already know too much real life –
all the losses that can’t be laughed at,
the way things get so serious so fast:
fire, flood, shooting, plague.

Good times are too hard to come by
to be squandered on
taking each other out.

poetry

the schools keep finding a way

the schools keep finding a way

when we said you can’t gather
they figured out how to get together
how to support our children
one living room to the next

when the towns were burning down
the schools sealed their ducts
so smoke stayed outside
and the buildings were saved

when flames chased toward the hospital
the schools called up their bus drivers
home on vacation, they drove toward danger
and rushed patients to safety

when whole neighborhoods burned
the schools reassured them –
you belong here with us
wherever you land

now they’re busing children
from the county’s four corners
so kids can have one bit of same
in this immense uncertainty

when the students had nothing
no backpacks no Chromebooks
no boots or winter coats
the schools greeted them
with a handful of everything

they set up free thrift shops
in the school parking lot
when we worried about the playground
they carted off the wood chips
when we worried about smoke
they tested the air

already feeding everyone
lunches for free
they added food pickup
for those whose pantries were gone

when I read that one-sixth
of Coal Creek Elementary families’ homes burned
(60 of 380 students’ homes are gone)
I began to understand

the immensity of the undertaking
to try to stabilize what has been deeply traumatized
to hold together a bit of the fabric
that once knit these families to each other

we ask so much of our schools:
our teachers, administrators,
support staff, custodians, paras, and kitchen staff,
school nurses, and counselors,
social workers, and bus drivers,
special ed teachers, psychologists,
registrars, front office staff,
and occupational therapists –
any title you think of at our schools –

we’re asking more of them now
than ever before
knowing that some of them
are also navigating their own loss

41 of them dealing
with their own new unhoused lives
while trying to stay hopeful
for the children they nurture