Help! The teachers are killing each other
With number 2 pencils and wooden rulers
and sharp-edged papers and expectations
and heavy folders filled with data.

Ms. Rowles is dead on the floor,
The principal’s master key jabbed
Into her cross-sectioned left ventricle.
Her last words were
“Don’t forget to study for the test.”

Mr. Carpenter is heaped over
And still twitching on his keyboard.
His blank eyes, fixed on his wall that house
a century’s worth of senior pictures,
Are filled with purple blood
and drenched in clean tears.

Mrs. Villalobos is cortada In cuatro
pedazos that lie
In the cuatro esquinas of the room.
She was pulled apart slowly slowly slowly
While the students watched.

They watched all the teachers kill each other
But they didn’t see it and they didn’t hear it.

When Mrs. Rowles cried “someone help me,”
All the students heard was “pick a partner
For the dissection lab.”
When Mr. Carpenter sobbed in pain,
All the students heard was “Emily Dickinson wasn’t famous
Until after she was dead.”
When Mrs. Villalobos winced and whimpered,
All the students heard was “no se permiten notas
durante la prueba.”

They were all dying.
They were all killing.
But the bell rang,
So the students got up
And went to their next class
Where another corpse sat
Ready.

And I’m sprinting frantically through the halls
Before I have to teach English 11
And I’m screaming “Help!
The teachers are killing each other.”
But they just see a lanky adult
Whistling and carrying a stack
Of fresh warm copies.

– Stephen Nothum