I have them practice

which way they’ll run,

not to hide under the bed,

or search for the cat,

or a favorite stuffed elephant

misplaced in the night.

We practice at night

because disaster always comes

when everyone is sleeping,

breathing even. It comes

like the angel for the firstborn,

and I for one don’t leave

my threshold bare. I try

to have them practice

being afraid, afraid enough

to save the irreplaceable.

But they are only children,

so the rehearsal becomes

a giggled make-believe,

where only I feel

the quick spark of panic

of one who has held ashes.