When the principal asks if we experienced any boundary issues

I want to ask, what boundaries? I want
to say, I swing wide open, fences crushed—
the kids stampede across the screen. My students
snigger. I yell, yet again, Don't hit your brother!
Why are you hitting him! My bedroom
door won't shut. My daughter kicks
in her sleep. My office
is my kitchen; my kitchen
spills to the floor. The mess
spills out of the cupboards.
My toddler pulls out the drawers. 
Outside the bathroom, they hammer
the door. I have nothing
left to say. Words have floated
away. My brain hums white noise.
I want to say, I've faded to an outline.
I want to say, no outline, a smudge.
I know you want to say that you are all doing great, she says.
She says, Work from the laundry room;
She says, Use a walk-in closet. I imagine
a door, shut to an embrace
of coats; imagine pressing the back wall,
how it yields.