if shame had a scent, it would be cedar and metal.
I snap clean in half
before I even begin -
a brand-new pencil,
straight as my promise,
cracking beneath my own weight.
Long division.
My elbows don’t know
where they’re supposed to live.
I’ve barely learned
how to sit still,
how to breathe,
and already I’m broken.
Another pencil waits,
but borrowing one
is a tiny death,
and I’ve already died once today,
split pants at recess,
trying to out-somersault Kerry Reed,
that rubber boy everyone adores,
always falling, never bruising.
So I rise.
The sharpener rules from the far wall,
a metal mouth, a cedar judge.
I walk the aisle -
Marissa, Freddie, Tina -
every face a mirror
catching my wobble.
Someone giggles;
someone pretends not to see.
I keep walking.
The sharpener growls,
eats the wood.
The air turns to forests
that never forgive.
I crank too fast -
snap! -
start again.
A hush claps behind me.
Years later,
a workbench, a draft,
my grip still heavy
when I’m trying too hard.
Snap!
The point gives way.
I freeze,
and somewhere in the dust
I hear that old sharpener spin -
the long aisle of desks,
the bravery of small steps.
This was my first lesson:
everything breaks,
especially under pressure.
Life is the rest -
learning to sharpen again,
to stomach the sound,
to keep making beauty
with whatever still writes.
GBS
2011
0 Comments