Preschool

We’re walking to the car, crunching snow

across the yard, overburdened, as usual

would make a good grave. What? I say.

My gun could do that. You don’t have a gun,

I remind him, as he climbs into his car seat

and waits, smiling, for the familiar zip

and click of the belt. Dad, he says, staring down

the fingergun’s barrel inches from my face,

you’re my best friend. Across the street,

the birch look thinner and whiter in snow.

I turn off the news—but too late, too late—

and drive slowly, so we can watch two crows

tuck and shoot through the tangled branches,

like the two he loves from his favorite

storybook, Odin’s black angels, Hugin and Munin,

thought and memory, sent out across

unbuckle my son’s seat belt, and he kisses

my hand before we cross the street.

Today we hang his coat on the hook

by his name, and he runs

through the open door and into the bright room

of children playing without saying goodbye.