in Seam, 28, Spring 2008
She is my History
teacher, suddenly revealed
be made not of stiff tweed but stretches
smooth flesh and black Speedo, and she treads
in the deep end, expecting me to fail.
Battle Of Passchendaele, The Beer Hall Putsch,
Break-Up Of The British Empire and now this,
very own Suez, glassy and unfathomable
the expression on Miss Brewster’s face.
week, between classes, I listen
the older boys boasting about what they know:
40 and divorced, she has, they say,
Neil Parkin a lesson he will never forget.
me, there is just an initiation to water —
hand firm above my waist as I claw forward,
breathing. She makes me watch as her legs
a perfect ‘V’ under the surface.
when I try to remember this, shivering
shallowness, I see only the stuff that lies ahead
its horrible questions, and the woman
at the other end, ready to swallow me up.