greasy fingers, (that mornings flat bread) mismatched socks (that morning's rush) and a habit of
sleeping in class
actually a habit of drooling over textbooks
and then finding them again as little dried up lakes.
my education was the ****** Dead Sea
we were constantly looking for a chance to misbehave
to valiantly deny any order received like
small picket fences, stubborn and straight,
and I never knew when to shut up.
it got us to suspension from English,
and dangling our bare and smelly feet over
the brick wall that separated us and
everything else
(except not the dust.
the dust is always everywhere.)
I remember smelling like
my sweat and his *** and my insides
and feeling like I held the best secret in my *****
and every time we glowed like two small mandarines
orange and bright in the afternoon sun
after we ran back from the abandoned bathrooms on
the tallest floor
(studying of course)
I love the way he looks left and right
out of the dark corners of his light eyes
his eyes follows his heart
(always, the tendons of the eyes do not have the ability
to differentiate lies from reality for these men)
his hand on the small of my back
his hand tracing patterns on my
navy leggings
as I push away his hand under the stern nose of the
bulbous and vulture-like librarian
(I stole almost 25 books last semester)
I remember when I tiptoed in very fast on that last day of May
with a laundry bag
full of literature that I didn't even read most of
she just smiled and said what a good girl;
and I walked back outside in the sweltering heat
and walked on those
burning bricks
back home.
will I ever find my way back home,
I wonder
