they’re emotional crap used to lure in women, that no guy in his right mind would ever write a poem on his own without an incentive.”
I blink. “An incentive?”
Dusty is sitting two rows behind me. “He’s saying it nicely. What I said was that no guy would write a poem for no reason. The poet in this case obviously wanted to get laid.”
“Very eloquent,” Peter says, and shakes his head. Folding his arms across his chest, Peter looks down at me. “And what do you say, Sidney?”
I make a face and look back at Dusty. “Not that.” I turn back to Peter. “A poem is an expression of emotions. It’s condensed language. At its core…” My vision goes black at the edges. I wrote poems. I vividly remember what happened the day I wrote the last poem. The choking sensation doesn’t stop. I can still feel his hands on me. I swallow my gasp and ignore the cold sweat on my back. Clearing my throat, I add, “At the core of poetry is purity—pure emotion, pure desire, pure elation, pure—”
Dusty speaks out, “So a poem can’t be filled with lies? What if the guy just wants to nail you? What if it’s all pretty words? You really think that ancient guys didn’t write this stuff to get a little action? Come on, Sidney, you’re smarter than that.”
Dusty’s words echo in my mind, wakening memories long buried. I clutch the side of my face and sputter, “Oh, come on, yourself. Not every guy is a bastard, Dusty. Isn’t it possible that some poems were written because they were cathartic and had nothing to do with panties?”
He says something back. A few guys chuckle. I close my eyes hard, but the classroom tilts to the side. It doesn’t stop. Dusty’s words ring in my ear, as a buzzing sound grows louder. What the hell is the matter with me? It’s just a letter. Dusty’s just a dick. I already know that. Nothing is going to hurt me, but I feel so threatened. I chase away the panic that’s consuming me and finally hear Dusty again. “…they did it then and they do it now. Guys don’t write poems for themselves. They do it to get laid. If they need an emotional outlet, they punch shit.”
For some reason, this conversation dredges up everything. Before I know what’s happening, I’m gasping, clutching my desk so hard that my fingers turn white. Peter is watching me. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t silence Dusty. I stare at Peter’s shoe and try to take long steady breaths. I’m going to have an anxiety attack and freak out in class. My heart is pounding, beating way too fast. A bead of sweat drips next to my ear and rolls down my jaw.
Peter cuts off the conversation. “So all the men in this room feel that way?” I hear movement, but don’t look up. “Very well. For the rest of this class period you are to go to the library and write a poem. It cannot be for a woman and it has to be an expression of emotion. It’s due on my desk at the end of the period. Bring it back here. Got it?” There’s a lot of groaning, and then the sound of chairs moving.
I try to push back and stand, but I barely move before Peter says, “Sidney, I need to speak with you. Stay put for a moment.”
Peter follows the class out of the room, and answers a few questions, telling them to return at 9:20pm with the poem. He tells them if they put in the effort, they get credit. No, length doesn’t matter. A few guys snigger about the size not mattering. Peter responds by telling them that they have to turn in two poems. I hear curses and then silence.
No one is in the room. At some point, I laid my head on the desk and closed my eyes.
“Sidney?” Peter’s voice is gentle. When I open my eyes, he’s kneeling in front of my desk. His eyes sweep over my face, worried. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. “Are you all right?”
I sit up and nod. “Sorry. I don’t know what…”
Peter’s gaze is filled with concern. He reads me perfectly. He knows that I’m lying. I see it in that sad crooked smile he
I blink. “An incentive?”
Dusty is sitting two rows behind me. “He’s saying it nicely. What I said was that no guy would write a poem for no reason. The poet in this case obviously wanted to get laid.”
“Very eloquent,” Peter says, and shakes his head. Folding his arms across his chest, Peter looks down at me. “And what do you say, Sidney?”
I make a face and look back at Dusty. “Not that.” I turn back to Peter. “A poem is an expression of emotions. It’s condensed language. At its core…” My vision goes black at the edges. I wrote poems. I vividly remember what happened the day I wrote the last poem. The choking sensation doesn’t stop. I can still feel his hands on me. I swallow my gasp and ignore the cold sweat on my back. Clearing my throat, I add, “At the core of poetry is purity—pure emotion, pure desire, pure elation, pure—”
Dusty speaks out, “So a poem can’t be filled with lies? What if the guy just wants to nail you? What if it’s all pretty words? You really think that ancient guys didn’t write this stuff to get a little action? Come on, Sidney, you’re smarter than that.”
Dusty’s words echo in my mind, wakening memories long buried. I clutch the side of my face and sputter, “Oh, come on, yourself. Not every guy is a bastard, Dusty. Isn’t it possible that some poems were written because they were cathartic and had nothing to do with panties?”
He says something back. A few guys chuckle. I close my eyes hard, but the classroom tilts to the side. It doesn’t stop. Dusty’s words ring in my ear, as a buzzing sound grows louder. What the hell is the matter with me? It’s just a letter. Dusty’s just a dick. I already know that. Nothing is going to hurt me, but I feel so threatened. I chase away the panic that’s consuming me and finally hear Dusty again. “…they did it then and they do it now. Guys don’t write poems for themselves. They do it to get laid. If they need an emotional outlet, they punch shit.”
For some reason, this conversation dredges up everything. Before I know what’s happening, I’m gasping, clutching my desk so hard that my fingers turn white. Peter is watching me. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t silence Dusty. I stare at Peter’s shoe and try to take long steady breaths. I’m going to have an anxiety attack and freak out in class. My heart is pounding, beating way too fast. A bead of sweat drips next to my ear and rolls down my jaw.
Peter cuts off the conversation. “So all the men in this room feel that way?” I hear movement, but don’t look up. “Very well. For the rest of this class period you are to go to the library and write a poem. It cannot be for a woman and it has to be an expression of emotion. It’s due on my desk at the end of the period. Bring it back here. Got it?” There’s a lot of groaning, and then the sound of chairs moving.
I try to push back and stand, but I barely move before Peter says, “Sidney, I need to speak with you. Stay put for a moment.”
Peter follows the class out of the room, and answers a few questions, telling them to return at 9:20pm with the poem. He tells them if they put in the effort, they get credit. No, length doesn’t matter. A few guys snigger about the size not mattering. Peter responds by telling them that they have to turn in two poems. I hear curses and then silence.
No one is in the room. At some point, I laid my head on the desk and closed my eyes.
“Sidney?” Peter’s voice is gentle. When I open my eyes, he’s kneeling in front of my desk. His eyes sweep over my face, worried. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. “Are you all right?”
I sit up and nod. “Sorry. I don’t know what…”
Peter’s gaze is filled with concern. He reads me perfectly. He knows that I’m lying. I see it in that sad crooked smile he
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