They would not defend it -
dangling over the gate, split nosed –
the fall I watched from inside,
so jealous.

They would not reason it;
splint in the accident
of the wasp pumped crimson
lip, nor my lopsided

forgiveness for smacking
the backs of their laughter
so. They would not look
away

from the wind that ripped
my threads of hair -oil
slick - the slate of
what became so readily

an excuse to cry. Their
eyes became the
grinds in my cheek;
a pummeled day

where fists would grace
and I mapped my desk
with what they wouldn’t
do; the lines of every taut

lesson  I held thick,
the thumb pounced athletic  
nib of my pen
crawling my arm

with schools of red fish;
itching arithmetic.
How could they know
which colours I use

to dot the I;
that spot
being so readily marked
with their X?