The Interview

I shuffe past the school’s
fortified metal. Guards frisk me

as I approach, ask me to leave
my name, phone number, time

of day; why I’m here in a book.
I think default procedure.

Maybe, I’m heartened
by their arm’s gesture,

how not one pats me down;
says, this way, madam.

Maybe this is the way a mind deadens
to what once shocked. Inside

his office, the principal asks
where do you think we’re going?

Outside his window, a boy
in the courtyard hits a ball

with his bat into blanched spring
light. Unmoved, I say, to hell.

You think so? he asks,
as the two of us watch

the ball soar beyond
high brick and barbed wire

to the roof where a sniper
guard scans the distance

for whatever scares
watchers into life.