The shouting
starts.
Malia’s skin
is white with plaster dust,
her face like a ghost.
Grown-ups
pour into the room,
scoop up kids,
and disappear.
Etan, we need to get outside.
Malia pulls me up
and we step over
what was,
just a few seconds before,
a table with juice and cookies.
We step between twisted light fixtures
and broken glass.