By Anney Bolgiano
It smelled like Tide Detergent in the upstairs classroom with the direct morning sunlight that made the teacher close the blinds. The light strips cut across our desks. I was sleepy then and I’m sleepy now, and I remember the skinny history teacher, how he gripped the edge of your desk. He was desperate; he said, “You need to know what happened, you need to know what happened,” and you stared, with your mouth shut, and blinked once.
Do you remember the last time they asked us what happened? I remember you pointed, at the wreckage, but you couldn’t open your mouth.
– Anney Bolgiano lives in Maryland where she teaches English, knitting, gender studies, and other topics at School for Tomorrow. She holds a BA in English from Guilford College. Her work is published or forthcoming in the Greenleaf Review and Dirty Chai Magazine.
Oblong 