poem
Volume 30, Number 4

School Shooting in 4 Dimensions

A stampede thunders across the linoleum, as if the sound could drown out the metallic taste of fear hanging within the air.

Click.
A rose grows between the spiderweb cracks in the window, as if its small body fails to recognize that it is trapped.

Click.

We hold our breath until our heartbeats are all that we can hear of ourselves, as if the growing silence could protect us from what looms ahead.

Click.

As if it could happen to me.

Click.

I never wanted to exist as an aftermath.


—Patrick Wang