Communion

a school parking lot poem

I leave her at school, like I do every day,
and I think of those parents, turning toward work
not knowing it was the last time.

The trees are half green and half orange
and they tell me things are changing,
but the terror feels the same.

As I turn to exit the school yard,
my eyes meet the officer
waiting at the edge of the lot.

He watches over the dwelling that holds my heart
that somehow goes on beating outside my chest,
and I wonder if he knows

how some part of me splits open
every time I watch her backpack
walk away.

I pass his car and realize
I recognize him,
the man who guards the church doors on Sundays.

He walked slowly to the altar in uniform once,
accepting the ushers’ invitation to communion,
the thimble of juice in his strong, rough hands.

All I could see was his gun
lying prostrate along his belt,
the metal reflecting stained glass.

Sticking to the roof of my mouth,
the bread lingers, the juice too sweet,
my ritual since I was younger than my daughter,

this finding communion with God
by remembering
not even God was spared from terror.

At the altar and her school,
we wait in communion,
the mother, the officer, the gun.

And I want to ask God how we got here.
How our sanctuaries became armories, our classrooms, cages?
Swords meant for ploughshares striking men in the garden.

How will the little child lead them
if she’s locked in a closet?
What can hands heal holding weapons?

As I walk home from drop-off,
the tears well up again, the leaves let go.
I whisper to myself,

This is my body
broken
for you.