Escape Plans

Every August, I scan each new classroom for windows I could break.

Which hallways are more accessible. Then maybe how, later on

in the semester, I’ll start to notice the impulses of my own students.

Which ones are at-risk. Which ones I believe could kill me.

The answer is all of them. I don’t say I feel hunted or that I’ve been

ready for the worst. My students catch me staring

out the windows and I don’t tell them I’m looking for the thickest trees

for the widest width. Which ones could catch the most bullets.

How I imagine flipping up all the tables and chairs. What objects,

if any, are available for a blockade. There are days I can’t leave

my office when I have to. I force myself into the classroom anyway.

Take my chances. Students run in the halls and I freeze. Keys ready

after class, I can’t open doors fast enough. Every day is a protest

against someone who wants me dead. These bookshelves are my best

buffer. But I wouldn’t upturn my desk, wouldn’t make objects

into a shield or shell because that would be a mistake. I’ve thought

of everything. It’s a long drop down, but I would jump.