Vol 1 No 1 2007
Summer Escape
Children, their hands upon desks.
Palms down, flat, knuckles ready for rapping.
Teacher takes out her pointer and her hairpins.
The clock has already struck summer but the long lines
of cursive have yet to surrender.
We are not of this time, says the girl in the front row.
The children gasp. Teacher insists upon silence.
A few pads twitch.
If I brought you my life you’d know what time it is,
Teacher replies, produces an apple, twirls
and throws it up like a coin.
I dare you, says the boy, the one with the multiplication tables
hidden on the inside of his elbows, planet roll call
underneath his five-ring binder.
Yes, comes the answer. Yes, you do.
And out of the wardrobe springs an old woman, a mattress,
a ticket stub, and a fence.
The children begin building. The boy and the girl
rush down to the gymnasium,
Teacher steps behind them.
They play with her life until the janitors turn out the lights.
Priscila Uppal