Don’t Arm My Mother With Guns

By Ellie Felderman

 

Don’t arm my mother with guns.

Arm her with roses,

and her kindergarteners with paintbrushes and the color pink.

 

Don’t arm my mother with guns.

Arm her with jewels,

and her first graders with string to keep around their wrists.

 

Don’t arm my mother with guns.

Arm her with the earth,

And her second graders with tiny hands and a kiln to burn.

 

Don’t arm my mother with guns.

Arm her with plaster,

And her third graders with empty forms to fill.

 

Don’t arm my mother with guns.

Arm her with canvas,

And her fourth graders with the color wheel times infinity and stories to tell.

 

Don’t arm my mother with guns,

Arm her with creativity she does not know she can access,

Arm her with children she does not know she can touch,

Arm her with colors she does not know yet exist.

 

Don’t arm my mother with guns,

Because she is already armed with dolphin drawings from six-year-olds,

And smushy cupcakes on someone’s half-birthday,

And as many jokes as a primary school student’s brain can remember.

 

My mother does not need your firepower.

My mother creates her own fire, power.