TUESDAY, JANUARY 22

Short week for MLK

and no one is taking anything seriously except Mrs. Fisher,

who sends me to ISAP for not wearing a belt.

Cussing her out gets old—when I leave I just say

Thanks for the stellar education, Margaret,

and people laugh, but I don’t care.

Mr. West waves me in wearily, and it’s just us

two in the silent gray room, the voices

of the Temptations like a warm gold light

in the corner. Sitting staring at the wall

I gradually realize that I’m not nervous.

I am alone in a room with a man, Mr. West,

and no follicle of my hair, no cell of my blood

ripples with anxiety. I glance at him

every few minutes, the way his face folds

down to study the book in his hands.

He’s reading something called Salvage

the Bones, and I wonder who

taught him not to howl

at the moon.

The door opens and I already know, somehow,

it will be Deja. Mr. Upton leads her in.

What are we protesting today? Mr. West says,

not looking up from his book.

Everything, Mr. West, she says.

Everything.

I hear that, lil sister. Take a seat.