When I got it wrong at school—missed

    a word， could not recite

    the long division tables—I would lock

    my knees beneath my little plywood desk

    in back where all the tall ones sat，

    and sneak¹ my uniform sleeve up

    and bite down on my forearm， make myself

    keep quiet， doing that， not

    crying； gnashing hard with my gapped teeth

    until the dotted "O" sunk in

    because I couldn‘t hold my breath，

    so had to clench² my skin while no sobs³ flayed⁴

    my lungs： those lightless rooms

    where loud girls kept themselves，

    and stayed unsorry.