January 2022
Bio Note: As a judge for two book awards in poetry from the Texas Institute of Letters, I have a healthy stack of 2021 books to read by mid-January (and I know that most of the books won’t arrive until the deadline because—ahem!—many of us put off submissions till the last minute). Since the TIL inducted me earlier this year into their renowned company, I did feel like I needed to give back to a community of writers that has nourished me over the years—and continues to do so with recent poems in four anthologies, including Diane Lockward’s new craft book The Strategic Poet. Maybe if I get through the dozens of books I need to read, I might even find time to work on a new collection of my own.
In the A-V Room
The repeated pattern of jarring alarms:
another lockdown—only this time
we’re herded like wayward sheep
into a room I’ve never seen, accessed
through the inner sanctum of the
library office. The solid wood door
latches and locks shut, and we are told
to find a spot, sit on the floor, and be
quiet—no talking, no cell phones.
There are no windows, no furniture,
just a dim glow from a single red
emergency light. At first, it’s so silent
that I hear the low whistle of air
struggling through the dirty cage
of a rusted vent—then whispers
of students and shushing from the
librarian. I notice a thin crack like
a junkie’s vein running the course
of the concrete floor, the dusty clumps
that cling to the floorboards, and
the cobwebs in the corners of every
low-hanging shelf, many with furry
sacs of lint. Electrical cords like the
long ends of nooses dangle from steel
AV carts, which creak with the weight
of leaning bodies. I wait for a crash
in this storeroom, a graveyard for tape
recorders, phonographs, projectors,
and other outdated equipment.
The room hushes down again with
a muffled sound from somewhere above,
and all eyes look to the stained ceiling,
to the spaces where two tiles are missing.
One girl bleats she has to call her mom,
but when we hear the pop of gunfire,
all eyes shift silently towards the door
and I draw a goodbye in the dust.
©2022 Scott Wiggerman
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