The Filmstrip, 1964
Mrs. Karian showed us a filmstrip
about the solar system. In eight billion years,
she said, the earth will fall into the sun
and be obliterated. You burst out crying,
and couldn’t stop. Mrs. Karian
sent you to the boys’ room
to get over it.
What are eight billion years when you are six?
I probably heard never, or at least I don’t have to
worry about this right now. But maybe you heard
when you’re older, or even sometime soon.
And maybe the newness of your being cried out
against the terror
of not being.
Wait!—
I’m only just—
but Mrs. Karian knew that a sensitive heart
is something to be hidden
in the boys’ room. She knew
that shame needs to be learned early.
She knew that billions
are nothing
to cry about. But
she was wrong. The billions of children
who have died on this earth rise up in ghastly chorus
to confirm your intuition— war, genocide, cruelty,
famine, plague, natural disaster— all the ways
this hapless planet falls into the sun
every day. A child cries,
and is not. Every day.
Who is there now
to send us to the little boys’ and girls’ rooms
to wash our faces
and get over it?