A Pile of Fingers

© 2004 Sean Kilpatrick
All rights reserved.

We hung our coats on racks
next to the dead fingers
in my fifth grade classroom.
These belonged to little girls
whose skirts rose above their
bubblegum knees -- or to little
boys with little erections
watching these girls
wear skirts. (I certainly
have two stubs for hands.)

In the hot stench
of summer afternoons,
flies would eat our skin
from the pile. The adults
didn't want us exploring
our bodies, but it canšt be stopped.

Little girls had to do "The Splits."
Teachers distanced a girl's feet
by slapping a ruler on her ankles,
until her bruised legs
were far enough apart
for the fingers to drop.
We'd have to wait till
all the fingers pried loose
and fell with wet smacks
on the tile.

Six came out of this girl
I had a crush on,
so they shoved her
inside the school's boiler.

(And, Sarah, I was too afriad to cry.)

Boys were controlled easier.
We'd just run over,
stick it in the pile,
and hump.

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