My seventh grade homeroom desk
was a black, blue smear
of old messages and notes
I would keep my religion book open there
with a hand pressed down the middle,
so it wouldn’t fall closed
as it laid on the desk
of black and blue
but also white—
white, when the pretty girl next to me
would tap her long white nails
on the hard, unforgiving wood.
Her fingers
would splay across the intersection of our desks
and she would tap mindlessly on them both
like she had every right to do so.
Our teacher lingered over her desk like a hawk—
no polish, Clarita, she would spit,
I’ve told you this before.
And every time she turned her back,
Clarita with the pretty white nails
would meet my eyes and grin
like we were sharing a secret
I hadn’t agreed to hear,
and for some reason,
it made my hand tremble
in the middle of my textbook
every time
About the Creator
angela hepworth
Hello! I’m Angela and I love writing fiction—sometimes poetry if I’m feeling frisky. I delve into the dark, the sad, the silly, the sexy, and the stupid. Come check me out!
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Comments (8)
I’m sorry to say I was a nail clicker lol I now think back to the hordes I accidentally annoyed. That and making a home in my desk for my piggy erasers.
Spicy!
I don't like long nails, and I don't paint mine. They're hard to maintain, so I keep them short and clean. I like yours Poem.
Perfect photo to go with this - such distraction her fingers were!
And the picture is perfect, too.
How perfect a class situation you created, how you absorbed the involvement of the teacher and students with colour, and finally, yourself. I loved the poem.
Angela, I loved how you brought color to this poem. And how you fearfully held on to religion. How sharp and white seem to be a bit sinister? And how Clarity might have been a bully?
Clarita doesn't seem to care for rules. Loved your poem!