Slow Learner

You didn’t know what it meant when the kindergarten teacher showed you a white rat laid motionless in the cup of a shell. But the rat was connected, however obliquely, to the woman flailing on the television screen, spoon jammed down behind her back teeth. It was connected to the helicopters that flew at night, searchlights roving over your blinds. A buckskin is the wildest horse, the girl on the playground said. She clawed the dirt with all ten fingers. A buckskin can tear your face off. You hated the sound of that, and you hated her. Molly is asleep, you said. But you knew it was a lie, and you couldn’t explain why. The teacher fit the other half of the shell over Molly’s body and buried her by the flagpole. Some of the kids cried. Not you. After school, a girl with short hair said, Girls shouldn’t have long hair. You know why? Because someone can do this. She went behind you and started strangling you with your hair. You laughed because you couldn’t think what else to do.

Sheila Dong is a Chinese-American, queer, and nonbinary poet based in Arizona. Their work has appeared in SOFTBLOW, beestung, Heavy Feather Review, and Juke Joint, among other places. They are the author of the chapbook Moon Crumbs (Bottlecap Press, 2019). Find out more at sheiladong.carrd.co.