Yiska sits in the classroom
listening to the teacher's yak
or not as the case maybe.
Something about Pilgrim

Fathers and a Mayflower,
she stares out the wide
window; feels the numbness
of *** where's sat so long.

Some kids are out on
the playing field. Cricket
or such like. Wonder if
he's there? Hard to see

from here. The girl next
to her elbows her elbow.
The teacher is talking
to her. She focuses her ears.

Others stare at her. She stares
at the teachers eyes, watches
his lips move, strains to hear
his words. Have you been

listening? He asks. She nods.
He wonders; pulls a face;
looks at the blackboard,
writes down more. She

picks up her pen; scribbles
down; watches his hand
move chalk across the board.
Benedict's hand moved  

elsewhere during break;
his lips on hers; she can
still feel where his lips
wet her neck; feels with

her fingers. Scribbles
the words, black ink like
flying birds. She rests her

cheek on the palm of her
left hand; scribbles copy
of the teacher's words;
senses the place where

Benedict touched. O to be
touched, touching, touch,
the teacher stops and looks
around; his eyes scanning

the room; he settles on her
beady-eyed. Have you got
all that? He asks. Yes of course,
she lies, dreaming of Benedict,
she opening, in her mind, his flies.