Describe the air, he says.
Don’t think about it, just start
writing. Whatever comes to mind.
Air? She mumbles the word and stares
at him or at least he thinks she is staring at him
but really she is looking at the clock on the wall
just above his shoulder. From her spot in the classroom
the clock appears to be perched near his ear
which strikes her as funny. Not haha funny
but crazy funny. Like describing air.
He paces in front of his desk then stops
and repeats himself like he is prone to do.
Just whatever comes to mind, the way air feels, he says, drawing
out the word f-e-e-e-e-l-s.
She doesn’t know how to describe air. She doesn’t
belong in this class or this school or this place or this
life.
This uncomfortable life.
The classroom is filled with sounds
of scribbling. Pen to paper. Thoughts spill
and pens move effortlessly, yet she sits frozen.
Immobile.
He walks to her desk.
He stares.
He snatches her blank notebook paper.
Her pen bounces to the floor
and hides beneath her desk.
Nothing, he says.
That’s how the air feels to me, she whispers.
He stares. She watches the clock.
Grace Grits and Gardening
April is National Poetry Month. Although Air is not written in the style of a traditional poem (and I do not profess to be a poet, heaven’s no), I do enjoy writing poefictiontry which Carve Magazine describes simply as poetry that tells a story or flash fiction that sounds lyrical.
