A few students in the back rows snicker,
pull at their eyes in mockery. Rats in the trenches
of desks. My eyes narrowed like a sniper squinting
and cleanly taking the shots upon their little bones,
scattering their formation through the study hall.
The ringleader tapped his pen like morse code
for the others to assemble. I dismantle the rattle
by lobbing a flashbang to shatter
their puny games. Troublemakers ask for a break.
“Sure,” I say, and release the trapdoor of sharpened
bamboo stakes. Their hostile eyes once gleamed
like a gun under a merciless sun, but now faint
as a distant shore in the shattered sea, as if to say
there will be no mutiny. Outside, autumn she-oaks
were bare as refugees, with nothing but the hulls
of leaves, ruined. Clouds row past the window
like sailing boats in an ocean-blue sky, bruised enough
for discipline, shallow enough for drowning.
