Dinner

Painting: "American Dream" Ava Grant, 2018

Dinner

Over paper napkins, chipped china, and boxed pasta,

my eight year old

announces he spent thirty minutes

huddled with classmates

under his teacher’s desk,

small, sweaty bodies

squished together in fear of the unknown,

"We have to practice, Mum."

My twelve year old

decides which space

would hold her and friends

in Spanish class.

"The problem is, nothing is bulletproof."

My thirteen year old

poses the dilemma of being shot

or jumping out her third floor

English class window

"Not sure which would hurt worse."

I twirl spaghetti and

anxiety, fears, frustration

around my fork

and swallow.

I choke on the callous sound bytes

"a generation of trauma and violence"

"lone wolf"
"loner"

I ingest the ignorance of rhetoric fed on silver spoons to

open, hungry mouths.

I try to digest the rancid reality overpowering

the sweet innocence of my children’s words.

I sip wine--

blood red--

a color on all of our hands.

"I’ll do the dishes tonight"

met with glee

so desperate to wash my hands.