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Small School
I am tied to the chair at school
the smooth wood, cold as iron
lamenting along a floor
of Dettol, beeswax, witch-hazel,
blood-flakes.
The other children are outside,
their shadows jangle like the
screams, the tissue-paper
prayers at the window.
I gaze grey at the autumn
to winter, bite mouthfuls
of clouds. The potatoes
taste of rain.
My thin skin remembers
each knuckle-whack, my
dead friends imprinted
behind my opal eyes,
silent as my hollow tree
of throat.
A line of chalk is my thread to reality,
it drifts around my sallow arm in helix,
to bind me.
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