Your hand could lift as the sun and, certainly as bright,
would fill the air, but a longer circumstance still draws
no raised hand.
Nine days are nine tortures, your stubborn tongue tall
as summer mercury goes, but a mouth that will not hinge.
“The order of yellow jackets? Does anyone know?”
A hand goes up, and then yours. The sun, yes.
The other student is called and states.
“No, that’s spiders and scorpions.”
Instruction levels its eyes at you, new to the school,
nine days, and points its hand.
“The order of yellow jackets, do you know?”
You still have no voice. You shake your ghastly head.
You can’t know.
“Are you sure?”
Sure if you could answer, shyly at last.
by Ray Succre