for the past 8 nights
I’ve snatched her from her crib
rocking her back and forth
back and forth
in the safe room outside our front door
I keep my hand over her soft face
don’t drop the pacifier
don’t see the light
don’t hear the booms.
don’t wake up
for her
the couple from down the hall sit in the dark
but
the strangers from the street flick the switch, unknowingly,
passersby and barefoot neighbors
chests heaving from their sprints
unnerved by the indoor darkness.
the first nights she’d stir
but now she lays limp in my arms
this one will not need black out curtains
or monotonous white noise
to block out the disturbing visions and sounds
of this world I’ve brought her into.

There are safe rooms, I know,
that didn’t keep them safe
from a far-worse terror
turning the handle of their door
so I lay her down
next to me
in my queen-sized bed
far away from the pillow, the blanket
the dangers under my control.

Leila Baron was born and raised in Massachusetts and works as an ESL teacher for at-risk high school students in Jaffa. She is currently pursuing her Masters in Creative Writing at Bar Ilan University. She has been previously published in Lilith Magazine and The Best Teen Writing of 2007. She lives in Tel Aviv with her husband and three children.