Sharp / White

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