The facilitating officer says we shouldn’t
assume a shooting won’t happen
here. He says it’s a matter of when.
He says kill count when telling us
the number of dead at each recent when.
He recites the number of injured.
He says injured means paralyzed,
mentally disabled, colostomy bags. We must
prepare to act, to take control—to run, to hide,
to fight. He instructs us to look around
the room for impromptu weapons
and barricade materials. He tells us how many
students can die in 90 seconds
then how many minutes it would take
the police to arrive. I do the math in my notebook
and, underneath it, that’s how many times
I write I’m sorry. I’ve watched the instructional videos.
I’m sorry. I’ve scanned my classroom
for impromptu weapons. I’m sorry.
I’ll stay alert for suspicious behavior. I’m sorry.
I’ve only come to teach the art of knowing
what a writer is saying and of saying
what you mean. I’m sorry.
I’ve come to the mandatory training.
I’ve listened to the data, I’m sorry, the kill counts. I’m sorry.
I may not get to you before the bullet. I may
forget everything. I’m sorry. I’ve written you
an apology in case. I know that’s not enough.
I’m sorry. I know none of this is enough.
Erik Wilbur 