The teacher is singing, her voice
a bluegreen moss that softens the room.
I don’t know why I make a fist,
but I let my left hand land
on the back of the boy beside me.
It makes a sweet thump, as if
he is hollow inside. And I like it,
the sound of that thump.
And I do it again. And I do it
again, my fist a warm stamp
on his silence. The teacher
is singing, her voice a leaf
that whirls through the room,
and I hit him again, not
to hurt him, but because
the thump sounds so good.
The teacher stops singing.
She looks at me and the boy
and asks us what is happening.
He is hitting me, I say,
and the boy does not say no.
She sends him to the corner
to sit alone. This is when I learn
to lie. Beside me, the space
on the rug is silent as wool.