Sixth Grade

In the basement art room, Miss Butterworth
taught through her doll Jenny
about proper pottery seaming techniques,
the poorly ventilated kiln humming in the corner,
and the boys behind me pulling my hair.
I tucked it smugly over one shoulder;
My breath caught as the pencil pushed its way
between my body and the seat.
moved in and out, mimicking things
whispered about in the locker room.
Everything too bright and swimming through tears,
cotton ball Santas leering at me from the shelves.

Whether because Miss Butterworth was more frightening,
the kind of teacher who still kept a dunce cap,
or because I was afraid of being branded
forever a snitch and a crybaby,
I sat frozen until the end.
The unwritten laws are schoolyard strict:
swallow it, swallow it all.

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