Extra CreditWhen the girl who looked like sun rays fell and twitched like an electrocuted fetus, most of the third grade class laughed. Some even pointed as if marveling at shooting stars their fingers forming a miniature firing squad. When their lightning-eyed teacher - frantic from lack of control - ran out of the room time slowed. The next minute passed like a stuttering mistake. Each second writhed with a fullness of life known only to overlooked grass stains and casualties of war. The chorus of whispering giggles blended with the tap- scratching of the young girl's shoes to form a ghost song. Smirks metamorphosed to fright. The classroom became a convocation hall. Students vomited their envy of her beauty and drank healthily of worry. Girls discovered cutting boards in their wrists where jealousy would grow. Boys unearthed empty liquor stores from stomachs that would foster lust. As the earthquake of blonde hair and smooth skin mellowed to a hum, the teacher shot back into the room like bullet lead birthed from a revolver, an emotionally-measured school nurse mimicking a whiff of smoke. They knelt beside the child as if on a lawn broken glass and placed bouquets of comforting words at the girl's tombstone face. The firing squad transformed to a 21 gun salute. The teacher and nurse became pallbearers lifting her by arms smooth as chrome. As they walked her from the room, the entire class again marveled at her beauty and paid respects to the perfection they loved to despise. ... This poem originally appeared in C, C & D online literary magazine and was later anthologized in print in [bound]. This poem also appears in The Mattress Parlor (Scribble Fire Press, 2011). |
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