1999
The head of security, bulge on the hip of his khaki shorts, explains the code red rules. Columbine is in the air. Lights off, blinds down, door locked. Push the green laminate card under the door into the hall—all accounted for. Slide the red one if otherwise. Get the big kids to topple tables, bookshelves. Heft monogrammed backpacks, build the barricade between you and that oak door.

Light touches heads

lined up beneath slatted blinds.

A hoop earring grazes a cheek.

2012
Retired FBI, button-down, no tie, his school badge swinging, presents lockdown revisions. Hall sweeps, grab kids on patios and stairs; don’t let the auto-lock shut them out. Someone coming down the hall? Erect the barrier but be ready to fight. Rush the shooter, throw papers, your bag—you won’t stop him, but you might slow him down.

She clutches her chemistry book,

backpack tall on her desk.

Dogwood branches scrape the glass.

2023
Former secret service agent brings some news. Throw it all out. Hear someone coming down the hall? Gun shots? Better yet, receive a text, he’s in the building? Don’t be a sitting duck, tucked up under windows, tight target lineup of collared shirts, green cheer skirts, peasant blouses. Run.

Blonde ponytails near the tree line,

kids zigzag the soccer field.

I pull up the back