Self-Portrait as Harold and His Purple Crayon in an Active Shooter Lockdown
by Andréa Ferrell Gannon
Curled here in the corner, along the wall, beside the door. Locked. No moon, but someone drew walkie-talkie static through the window panes. Two broken sticks on the tile. A purple crayon between pee-pee streams and huddled feet.
Are you up to your old tricks—?
I’m not, Mommy. I can’t find an eraser.
I drew a moose to distract us, a porcupine to hobble him—passing by again.
A page turn, corner turn, a cape for Teacher’s shoulders, a ladder to the air vents. A trim little boat. Gushing faucets—I’ll flush the hallway. Our knees draw up, chair legs and feet, dust. Kiddie sweat. Quaking at a footstep. Teacher’s hand covers our sneakers lighting up. I would draw, a wall full of windows, buildings full, cities, and climb holding a broken bit, steadying to paper. Mice-quiet, Teacher whispers. Time for one halo for the class, then his shadow—
Andréa Ferrell Gannon is a memoirist-poet, a native Californian, the daughter of an immigrant mother and Lakota father, and a World Languages instructor. Find her now or soon in The Washington Post, GRXL, Poet Lore, and Best of American Poetry blog.