Roxanne Cardona

At Fourteen, Then

The inner roar of my orca,
leapt against sameness.

So, when Mrs. Mazo, the hygiene teacher,

the one we planted signs on
whenever she turned her back,

Turn me around I’m going the wrong way,

directed us to name cell division,
I railed, Your mom and your pops.

And when Chuck tossed a rolled-up test paper at me,

I stood up with my shredded loose-leaf,
frisbeed it at his laughing head. Class fame awaited me.

I worshipped at the altar of disobedience, became

the kid who made every teacher’s stomach
bruise at the very sound of my sugar-cubed good morning.

I wore denim instead of wool. Painted the horizon

across my eyelids in black, smudged
the skyline on top in deepest blue, made concentric

circles on my cheeks, fire red for lips.

I was the canvas. People looked;
it was what I wanted―then.