I Don’t Let My Children Wear Camouflage - Amy Elizabeth Robinson

[Larry Robinson]

I Don’t Let My Children Wear Camouflage

This morning on the swings 
my son’s hair
was camouflage with the summer 
grass and a raptor screamed across 
the green field of his tee-shirt. 
I’m like a tree, he said, 
but not dark
like a manzanita.

This morning families
gathered in concentric circles
of fury and grief,
asphalt beneath their feet.

This morning my son asked
Does anyone have white skin, really?

This morning my daughter
led a pale horse
across dusty ground, 
her pale arm swinging loosely.
Swinging freely. Free.

We’re all shades, I said,
and left it at that. But
when my daughter caught
me crying on the back step
I told her about Alton, Philando, 
riot gear, the rooftop 
in Dallas, the people who stood 
by that stroller
making themselves a shield.

I want to tell her
that it’s not our turn
to speak.

I want them to be big
and bold and beautiful,
my children,
in their sunwashed skin.
I want them to know 
what it’s like 
to be the only white 
kids in a room, and listen. 
I want them 
to do so many things—
step back, be quiet, shout 
from treetops, wait their turn, sing 
from rooftops, always 
be reaching, yet never
blend in. 

	- Amy Elizabeth Robinson


"the path to heaven
 doesn’t lie down in flat miles.
         It’s in the imagination
                  with which you perceive
                           this world,
 and the gestures
         with which you honor it.”

		- Mary Oliver




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