Gun

KAREN BENKE

My son grabs a plastic hanger, 
points the silver part on top 
and proclaims it his gun. 
I’ve been looking for you, he says, 
and decides he’s going to shoot me. 

Then you won’t have a mommy, I say.
My voice measured, as I try to hide
this new fear over his words. 
He’s only three, you see, but insist
she’s going to shoot up all the bad guys.
His eyes dart around the toy-strewn room. 

I tell him we don’t shoot people,
not ever. Do you understand?
Oh, yeah? he says, eyeing a row 
of hard-backed books, holding stories
of the people in peril I love. 
Then I’ll shoot up this book, he laughs,
and quick pokes the tip 
of what I remind myself is, after all,
only a hanger, into the spine.

But then, I lose it—and rip the weapon
from his small hands, demanding he stop
all this talk of violent behavior. 
Downstairs. Right now! 
Like a soldier, I command— 
Eat your breakfast. Get dressed. 
I shove a sack into his backpack,
jerk open the door, point toward the garage.

On the way to pre-school, he whispers
from his car-seat that he was only kidding.
Mommy, he says. I didn’t mean to kill
those books. And I sigh, relieved—
he’s teaching me forgiveness. 

• • •

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