Third time this week, the teacher said, with thin, wet lips.
You shrugged, mouthed the magic words, waited for the punishment
Which was a reward, no more of this school for you, not this year,
No more of these professional sadists with their bland, bureaucratic smiles.
Inside something reached to touch the sky through the hole in your head
And something else huddled in the dark at the back of your soul,
The something else that had huddled since Daddy left you with her,
And she left you with—well, with whomever, whenever, for however long.
You thought that there really should be a falling black gavel,
A huge blood-saturated stamp thumping upon a white, white sheet,
At least some faceless blue uniforms leading you down a telescoping hallway
Whose end was the same as every other end you’d never seen.
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