April | 4 | Clyde





Ten fifty-two a.m.:

I mopped linoleum

Checkered red and white.

In thirty-eight minutes,

I had lunch for fifteen.


Unzipped backpacks

Staggered the hallway

Like chess pieces.

I held wooden handle;

Mop’s bleached

Dreadlocks dragged.


I walked by lockers

Tinted charcoal,

Framed by dust.

My cleaning supplies

Crowded girl’s bathroom sink top.

Eight minutes till the bell.


Intersections cornered

Each row of lockers.

Purple shoulder bag

Cross-knitted – “Anika” –

Sagged to the floor.



The unstitched

Wound of a stretched

Compartment: a .44


Between textbooks.


My splintered right hand

Grabbed leather grip.

Two textbooks’ spines

Collided. Left index

Finger brushed the barrel.

Gripped smelled like latex.


I aimed.

Lockers chuckled.

Principal: in meeting.

Classes: in session.

My mop timbered.

Caliber in right, then left,

I walked to my closet.



A faucet ran, a choked

Throat splurged thick spit,

Water fell.

There were no showers.


Caliber in left hand, I charged.

Blonde at sink

Gagged water.

In hand: Windex bottle,


On floor:

Green goggles.

My cleaning supplies

Poured onto the floor.


Right hand stomached,

Left hand necklaced –

She limped to stalls

And stopped to hurl.

Hobbled, at stall door,

She banged her head

And turned on me:

Eyes dilated, chin bearded.

She screamed. I screamed.

I shot.

She collapsed:

Intestines fell out

Like jump rope.


Gun: in my hand.

Bullet shell: by my foot.

Time: eleven a.m.

The bell: ringing.


Choking on my spit,

Chafing from sweat,

I grabbed my kerchief

And wiped my prints.

I dodged jump rope

And rested caliber

In her right hand.


I left.

Ambulance arrived.

She left.

I mopped linoleum

Checkered red and white.

Add comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.