by Timothy Dekin

    Back from a 12-hour pass，

    My student lays her Camel on the desk.

    The thin smoke rises in a rope that flutters

    A little to her breathing， and her look

    Beneath makeup¹ like crayoning is not

    The scared look of the cornered animal

    I have prepared for， but a knowing smile.

    Maria's twelve， a prostitute，

    And tortures pets from curiosity.

    Trailing her sleeping bag from one abandoned

    Building to another，

    Like a comic-strip Linus with his blanket，

    She's come home forever

    To serving lines and dayroom television

    And parents with solid black ties.

    I yawn， tell her to put the cigarette out

    And go and wash her face——

    Maria with the tear

    A cellmate tattooed² on her cheek，

    Bleeding before she has begun to bleed.

    I offer her the chance to be like me，

    Adult， in institutional repose³.

    Instead， she pulls her blouse up，

    Sticks her prepubescent breasts out， her idea

    Of a taunt⁴？ A sin？

    I'm touched，

    But when she grabs my phone，

    I lose it.

    "Give it back！"

    I almost shout， You little bitch.

    When she shakes her head no

    And hides the phone behind her back

    I grab the cord coiled around her wrist

    And jerk hard.

    Being on her knees only makes

    Her smile more mocking：

    We both know what I am

    Behind my desk， in my teacher's coat and teacher's tie，

    With my pose of weary composure——hell's appropriate

    behaviour——

    A synonym⁵ for despair.

    Calmly as I can， I reach

    My hand out for the county's property，

    While Maria， raking my forearm with her nails，

    Gives me one more chance

    To be myself.

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