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J. Marcus Weekley
At the Back of the Cross
Walking to the back of the room, I stare at the class: someone scribbles a sentence that trails off, someone picks her nose, someone writes a love note, someone thinks of laundry in a basket at home, I imagine. None of them are doing the writing I assigned. None of them are as beautiful as the other. Each is beautiful. And lazy.
I wonder if they do like this when they're at home, in their dorms, apartments, parents' houses, dreaming of heroes, football or otherwise. I wonder if they want to get away from here, if they like it, if they're happy right where they're at. I wonder which of them would be my lover. If I wanted such a thing.
I walk to the front of the room and scribble two words on the board—"yes" and "maybe"—we all know the other word, but I want them to picture all the worlds in that space between the two. Someone laughs.
outside, a sparrow chirps
then another, another
empty classroom, and me