The teacher refuses to open the door,
at odds with her profession.
Of course you know why. You answered
her questions with three
blank pages — no need to be verbal,
her omniscient nerve sees all. You write
in transparent ink.
The class turns rowdy. Roars and whistles.
You feel happy but can’t shake some lurking
disappointment. So you honk from your nickel-plated
seat like a clown.
The teacher repeats her sentence,
inconsiderate of your obvious
You swear to tell the truth — instead, a last punch
to the teacher’s glasses.
They slide off
the cliff of her nose. A spectacle, like every word
from her lips
passing down the highway
of your hyperbolic mind.
Stand outside and pull your ears!
So you tilt your head and see
the inverse sky.
Windows tipped like wings, clouds
look so soluable.
When you rub your eyes, the clouds
fall as tears. Swallow
them — they taste like salt and light.
by Greta Aart and Sally Molini
For process notes, see “Vanishing Biography“