Anticipation

I had this dream that I would write a
poem tonight. A silky smooth to say
poem. And I smiled nervously saying
I couldn't wait for the words to come
for me. And she said that she knew
they would.

Our Classroom

B11
Social Studies

We sit in murky darkness watching projected images.
I see the people around me fuzzy, like a static T.V channel.
The windows are large and cut into quarters. Covered with thick old curtains.
The sills are chipping with paint that's bubbled from summers heat.
I squint to survey the walls which are masked in posters with squiggly lines, colourful dots.
The desks have ink embedded into their wood.
We make make tattoos on our victims as we wait for the lessons to end.

He Is Leaving

Ghosts fly down the chimney, their crying loud and shrill.

His desk, once overflowing now lets its papers roam the halls.

The rocking chair he made last year will stay forever still.

The house is quiet.

He is leaving.

The path to the forest has disappeared. Vines and bushes taking back what is theirs.

Fruit from the trees is sour, they disapprove of his absence.

His pride and joy the vegetable patch turns to seed without his careful attention.

The garden is thick with resentment.

He has left.

Every night the Tui's chirp indignantly. No longer does he come to feed them.

Deer invite themselves to graze on the grass that keeps on growing. No more must they fear his bullets.

And the river runs. As fast as her banks will allow. Hair tangling in the reeds, eyes tired from searching, she is to slow to catch him.

He is missed.

Sarah Nicole