On Lockdown

Instead, we cluster in the corner

where Mrs. Brown sits in Dustin’s desk,

blocking the entrance to the classroom.

We huddle beneath cutouts of paper planets.

Mrs. Brown tells us to get down on the floor

and we form a severed line, crossing our legs

as she rummages through the desk for anything

to read. Whatever it is, the book shakes in her hands.

She misses a few words, grips the bottom

of the chair as if to steady herself. No one mocks her.

We’re too confused. Within us something pulls

and unstrings but we listen, eager for the pages

to flip and fall. Our parents arrive, cars at all angles.

Chalk flowers smudge on concrete.

They press their palms to the windows

and I can see how the bones of their hands

glow beneath their skin.

More hurry from open cars, running

with younger siblings struggling to keep up.

Amanda’s mother mouths words,

points to her ears, signaling she can’t hear.

We see the color gather in her cheeks.

until they lock with his son. When he shouts John’s name,

breath detonates glass. We gasp. Our parents

are forging footpaths in the hive-haunted

gardens that weave between the ferns surrounding

the main building. They gather around our rooms.

It looks like a game. Michael makes faces

at his mother. Sarah buries her face in a doll.

I worry about my older sister down the hall

stuck to a floor with the fifth graders.

Then Mrs. Brown tells us to stay down,

finish a clap game against the lime-colored walls

stacked with puzzles and our artwork.

We slap our hands together as Mrs. Brown

lowers the blinds, the sun clicking out

window by window, casting the room in shadow.

Our parents’ arms tremble against the glass like webs.