In the Elementary School

I stray down the hallways, high ceilings stained like dark rust, walls green like the hemlocks beyond the windows. There is my first grade classroom, door swinging on its hinges like the door to a saloon. As its mouth gapes I can see parrots inside, perched on a piano with a small woman at their feet, hair waving out of her scalp as if on fire.1

She calls for water. I turn to the bathroom sink, blue coffee mug in hand, its insides scarred from decades of whirling spoons. The sinks line the left wall, opposite the glowing windows, cloudy light soaking through shredded screen. There are birds on the windowsills, tearing the woven metal with their beaks. The hemlocks avenge from the other side, their needles prick sharper than the screens, the beaks are scarred like the inside of the coffee mug, their feathers are dripping with blood.2

She tells me to hurry. The faucet won't budge, its joints are locked with rust and bird droppings caked on like scabs. Overhead more birds are swarming, bellies bloated and dark with blood like heavy clouds. Their thunder, their wings beating, their beaks screaming, they fall to the floor and gush like floodwater as I fill my cup.