I think of you, fellow teacher, and I fear what lies
on the other side
of the door, the window, the rain. What power
lies in waiting, what anger,
what brown paper bag
concealing fire. I lean back
in my desk chair and make myself
a little smaller, blend
into the fibers. We are all made of the same
blood and bone, and from that pile
of particles, we share a silent
understanding: history repeats itself in the face
of gun powder. Whenever I hear of another
school, another tower, another town, I never want
to check the names, but I still do.
In case it is you. In case
it is me, and somehow, what’s left has not
woken up to the daze. Like glass,
I look at the series of names, praying for each one
like a chant, praying for their home towns—Roseburg,
Sutherlin, Myrtle Creek, Myrtle Creek, Roseberg,
Roseberg, Roseberg, Winston, and Glide—
and the craters settled there, where the world holds
its breath.