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The Laying on of Hands

Their bodies touch, casual in the classroom,

fingers brushing thighs under cluttered desks.

Go home and fuck, I’d tell them

if I was high or not in charge. Lust oozes above

my low bark stripping somebody’s words naked.

Their bodies touch in the casual classroom

of nodding heads half-detached, glazing out

into the gray February blah blah blah.

Go home and fuck! I’d tell them

if we were friends. A statue of our founder imposes itself

above dirty snow like twisted black coal, an effigy of me.

Their caustic bodies touch in the classroom. They know

each other. Everything. The floor burns beneath them.

My notes erupt in flames. I taste the ash.

Go home. Fuck you! I’d like to tell them.

It’s not on the syllabus. I’m talking about character today.

Punctuation leads me astray. The boy the girl the ink bleeds.

Their bodies touch. Causality in the classroom.

Go home. Fuck, what can I tell them?

from Birth MarksFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2013
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Jim Daniels Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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