Poetry lesson

Sweat beads and trickles like a finger running down my chest.  Miss Withers hands out the books – brittle spines that crack and shower dried glue.  Dust.  But from between the pages I catch a flash.   A silver fish slips across my open palms, trailing cool, damp weed.  It swims through the parched air and slips into her moist mouth.  She coughs, picks with thin fingers at its wriggling tail – slides it through her pink lips, lays it on the desk.  She dabs at her mouth with a folded tissue.  Now to work.  Miss Withers picks up her pen, cuts its silver belly, presses her fingers into the gut – pulls, tears each delicate organ.  An inventory of innards spread out on the desk.  It is, without doubt, dead.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s