Rudely interrupting my lecture on Derrida:
a chatter of machine gun fire: dada dada da.
Eyes suddenly wide, my students and I
duck and hunker down by our desks, sign
and signified forgotten in a flutter of abandoned texts,
surmising the long-rumored attack is on at last.
Etienne gets brave enough to peek out the window
and ask the uniforms he sees gathered below
just what in the hell’s going on. When it turns
out to be merely a thief they’ve shot in a corner
of the vacant classroom next door, we all spill
outside laughing, a little sheepish at that strange thrill
we’d felt: how war engenders a sort of relief.
We gather in a semicircle and watch gendarmes drag the thief,
dirty and bleeding, from his niche of hiding,
arms bound tight behind his back. There was nothing
to do now but return to our books (since all the fun
was over), situate ourselves and recommence the deconstruction.
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