Poem by Dr Arden Eli Hill
The Blessing of the Backpacks for Wendy A. Gaudin

When I was young,

it was animals.

The cathedral’s arches

echoed like Noah’s ark

though more domestic.

Calicos not lions.

Poodles instead

of a pair of wolves.

They were multitude,

our pets. They lined aisles

on laps, in carriers,

swimming small circles

in jars beneath the pews.

The priest raised his hands

and blessed those pets

the ones he said had no souls.

Jenny LaFleur’s mother died,

and a nun told her she’d become

the brightest of angels.

The priest interjected

clarifying human beings

and angelic beings

are not the same.

But surely, she was in heaven?

Less certain, the miscarriages

Tommy Domaingue’s mother had.

Those babies at conception.

Those unbaptized souls.

This Sunday, I attend another church.

Blessing backpacks is all the rage.

No one expects a soul to be contained in one

or expects too much from fabric

that can’t stop a bullet from

making shrapnel out of children’s

Lisa Frank binders.

Bless the backpacks and curse

gun control. Offer thoughts and prayers

but hide your wallet. Hire officers

to patrol the school.

Bless the badge

and bring men of God

into the classrooms

of our public schools

so someone can force last rites

on anyone, even the Jews,

even the atheist queer kids

who, despite being bullied,

are never the ones

bringing their blessed

guns to school.