9am, the carpet is warm.
Sunburn.
The teacher’s skin peeling red like smallpox. Temporary.
I’m sorry.
What she blurts out when I share my grandma died.
Girls gathered in plastic brick fortresses,
their shouts fill the room
“You can be the baby!”
Hands on my arms,
each tugging at me like stuffing pulled from a doll
“I’m her sister!”
“I’m the mom!”
A girl, a full head taller than me, hair down to her waist
“I’m Megan!”
showing me the marble tiles and sinks I can almost reach
“Here’s where you brush your teeth!”
Her hands are holding onto air
mine clutch stamps shaped like bristles
morning, noon, and night
The teacher wraps her fingers around
Megan’s vacant hands
and nods
요. (the bowing syllable)
What should come at the end of every sentence talking to an adult.
mine stays trapped in my tongue.
Wish + bone = wishbone.
Horse + shoe = horseshoe.
worksheet filled. pencil dulled.
missing just –
요.
The teacher grabs my hand, pulling me out of class
It’s a zero on your character worksheet.
sneakers pulled from the shoe rack
dropped on the hard concrete
tears darkening the parking lot, never been
so empty.
The teacher tells me to leave, and I
Want my mom’s white car. The smell of lunch. The wooden chairs.
I am four. I am
made to face the wall –
nails digging into palms as lunch time passes
Wishbone. Horseshoe. (false luck)
of the teacher’s fingers gently wrapped around my toothbrush small hands pulling me to be the baby