The poet to my right coils and uncoils.
Flattens her chest against the table.
Crosses and uncrosses her legs.
She just can’t contain
herself in a single form when she
speaks of her mean lovers.
Not her on my left with a penchant
for all the other hard things in life,
which she reads to us with
spine straight as a rod.
Her whole body pleading,
Please don’t hurt me.
Another sits deadpan.
Life has scraped her clean.
Taken her apart bone by bone.
Washed and dressed her
and set her down across from me.
Her poems fidget. Search
for a place for the pain to start.
She asks, Can someone help me?
We writers model courtesy, self-control.
There’s not one carnival vibe among us.
We don’t even blink when our teacher
tells us he will soon be dying.
On command we pick up our pens--
our rescue—
And write down his prompt—Mercy.
And then beg for it
shamelessly.
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