Irna sat in the portable classroom,
temple pressed against
the frosted window,
staring out into winter.
Pain to her
was like watching
sleet fall from inside
a glass house.
Nobody knew
where she came from—
some island without
corsages,
detention,
or assemblies.
Her mind was there,
walking the sea walls—
ocean birds and palms above.
She was pretty.
But when she looked at us,
her eyes wobbled.
Of the things we did to her,
I remember Tom Yiddney,
the mongoloid,
forcing his mouth to hers
at lunch.
And the time Justin Lurton
pegged her with a dodge ball
She fell and crapped her pants.
We laughed.
It meant nothing to Irna—
her mind adrift
in the yellow flowers
of the blossoming tamarind.
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