Notes on the Back of the Syllabus

Issue 50 • Fall 2024 • Poetry

If we are to survive a ruptured

            ordinary, we must first learn

            to wrap belts and cords around

                        the arms of hydraulic doors

or above the gush of blood.

Assume the sound of gunfire is gunfire,

                        our guards say, but secure means

stack flimsy desks

            in a barricade. Shelter means the eye of the storm.

                        Upon entrance, we should count exits,

            including windows—you can leap

from even the third story; also listen

                        to your guts, use common sense, they repeat.

            We ask about the glass doors of classrooms,

                                    through which anyone can see or shoot.

            It’s a lovely building, we’re told, beautiful

design, but turn off the lights and crawl

            into a cabinet, under a desk. Buy yourself

three minutes, five. If you can’t hide

                        or run, try to remain silent.

            (Imagine our screens: aquarium

fish dazed into stillness.)

There is no definite protocol for this;

  we’ll need to improvise: play dead or raise

            chairs into weapons. There are backpacks full

of gauze and water, because in the unquiet after

there will be a brief tunnel:

                        five minutes to force

blood to clot and give

                                    the victim a chance to reach

trauma surgeons. They say packing wounds

will hurt amid fear and screams. It will not be easy,

            not feel kind. But the clock is narrow.

We must apply constant pressure.

Issue 49 • Spring 2024

Fiction

Poetry

Fiction

Poetry