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      May 29, 2022Rachel MallalieuI Tell My Son to Cover Himself in Someone Else’s Blood

      Last night, I told my son
      that if he sees a shooter coming, he needs to
      hide in a file cabinet or underneath
      a covered table.
      If he’s in the bathroom, he should
      stand on the toilet and lock the stall door.
      If there’s nowhere to go,
      I asked him to paint
      himself with someone else’s
      blood and play
      dead.
      Give him a break my husband murmured.
      Let him relax a bit.
      Simon needed extra prayers
      at bedtime.
       
      Say my name out loud.
      Tell God to keep me safe, or at least
      don’t let him come while I’m in art
      class. During shooter drills,
      my teacher forgot to lock
      the door and the window is too big
      to cover with paper.
       
      I smoothed the circles under
      his eyes while I begged God
      to keep him here, with me.
       
      Today, the forest is a cathedral
      and cedar trees waft incense.
      The blossoms are a riotous crowd
      —tulip poplars, mountain laurel,
      dogwoods and wisteria.
       
      The “About Me” poster outside
      Simon’s fourth grade
      classroom says he loves our dog
      Theo and tacos.
      His favorite color is green.
      He wants to be a doctor.
       
      The trees hush the sirens
      and only the flowers hear the
      whispered coda to my prayer.
       
      If he comes, God, and Simon
      can’t hide, please
       
      please God,
       
      let me be there too.
       
      The blooms, mute gods, bend
      their faces toward my cries
       
      and promise
      nothing.

      from Poets Respond

      Rachel Mallalieu

      “I send five children to school each day. I have a fourth grade son. I cannot stop weeping. I cannot stem my rage.”