The fire alarm sounds sixth hour
buzz-shriek pierces all senses
vibrates bones and deep tissue
unannounced
prep period almost over
pile of papers nearly graded
end-of-year vocab tests
never enough time
new batch of students in ten minutes
eighth graders
mentally checked out weeks ago
this sure won’t help
but better during prep
than with a room full of kids
pinballing off the walls
bursting through the doors
one breath of spring air
and they’ll be lost
frolicking in the grass
picking dandelions
No, better to be on prep
to walk out with teachers
who ask, Did you hear
there was another shooting?
not locked in our classrooms
lights off
voices silent
huddled in corners
I can’t help thinking
about the shooters
who pulled fire alarms
lured their targets outward
outside now
we move forward
scan the perimeter
for anything suspicious
anyone running
screaming
any prone bodies
pools of blood
Jennifer Hernandez lives in Minnesota where she teaches middle school and writes poetry, flash, and creative non-fiction. Much of her recent writing has been colored by her distress at the dangerous nonsense that appears in her daily news feed. She is marching with her pen. Her work appears in such publications as TheNewVerse.News, Rise Up Review, Tuck Magazine and Writers Resist. She is working on a chapbook of hybrid writing on teaching as a political act.
