The Light

Sunflowers sit sleepy at their desks
Here in the brick building set on Salish land,
wondering why the pen feels painful propped between the pulse
of finger and thumb

“Ms. Sjodin?” one asks, “Is this for marks?”

My naaame is Leanne.

Marks?!
marks making material from ethereal and pushing pondering and process to the realm of meaningless
meaning
less in a system of reward and
what do you think anyway?

so what

while one sleepy flower coos softly from under his finally so close to getting out fine feather blanket
his fingers fold, hold the pencil bitten at its end
I can see the wood chips splintered between his teeth and I wonder why he doesn’t just spit them out once in a while

like Randy Jackson getting’ his groove on
over a good beat and a dance crew steppin’ out into the screw you with a see my feet fly so high over the ingratitude and the flat hand on the head top

no stop

suddenly, there’s a crackle and a voice pops
soft over the PA
I hear it, the question
“Why? Why Santy Clause, why?”
and the lie
that the light
won’t light on one side.

Comments

Anonymous said…
cooool .
February 28, 2009 at 6:20 PM
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