The schoolgirl

I am not at home.
How white my bed sheets are.
My small bed seeps dreams,
The moon is bare in trees,
It has no face or mouth;

Nor the schoolroom clock,
Parts, bits, cogs.
Departures, departures, the track
Of time empties white into a distance
Tap. Tap. Tap. I find myself waiting.

I am a pulse, a rehearsal attends me
Like a nurse; she is flatness, a dead socket.
I sit at my desk with cold angels, I saw
Their death in a holy book.
As I read, it emptied itself of its promise.

I remember the minute when I knew for sure,
I could see the dangers coming for me, I saw
My world in it— small, mean and black.
Every word hooked to every other word
Like swarms of fish, swaddled in a cold sea.

I was not ready. I thought I could deny the
Consequences. The nun stitched her beliefs
Into me like a rare organ, I did not look.
Terrible students injure me with their white eyes.
I hold my fingers up in prayer, ten pickets leaking

From the cracks in my soul. It widens and dies
In a room papered with psalms. They are not quiet.
Let us make a heaven, they say. Darkness hoods
Me in blue, like the virgin. I am engulfed and drown
In a religion. Can nothing be so prodigal?

Copyright © 05/31/2019 lance sheridan®

The schoolgirl