Left With Gratitude

Duct tape across her mouth, sitting on her evil left handedness, what’s a girl to do? Even a second grader can attempt to teach with “but 2’s are yellow, so, balls and b’s are not blue”. Out the door with parental instruction into, “Art”. Practice at play in pretty pastel tattoos from pinky to wrist insisted righteousness, while nuns – good, art – bad ran up and down her scales. Drumming, thumping in happy rhythms rapped like broken rules. Self discipline is certainly a bitch of a teacher, reaching her above a song.

No, poem about Rilke in the hall, pounding ekg’s on the blackboard that broke her watching heart, flat lined in black and white silent asystole. Who cares, she does, passionately, maybe too. She apologizes to sister Jean and Margret, even the non-nun Mrs. that called her squirrel in front of the class for laughs. If only.

They could read me now, about symbolic habits in the fact that they were right.


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