by Frannie Lindsay

    When I got it wrong at school—missed

    a word， could not recite

    the long division tables—I would lock

    my knees beneath my little plywood desk

    in back where all the tall ones sat，

    and sneak my uniform sleeve up

    and bite down on my forearm， make myself

    keep quiet， doing that， not

    crying； gnashing hard with my gapped teeth

    until the dotted "O" sunk in

    because I couldn‘t hold my breath，

    so had to clench my skin while no sobs flayed

    my lungs： those lightless rooms

    where loud girls kept themselves，

    and stayed unsorry.