class fifteen

Adam


Could I hope to understand you?
Could I hope to ever point to
what it is that sets your step, and
brings about your smile? Or could I
think of you without your face or
form and then still know this you? Are

you your face? Without your coursely
bearded, boyish mask, the scar that
tears your forehead, sad eyes that still
seem to smile, your build that others
have compared to a Greek god–then
would you still be you? I think you

would be. And I’m pleased that you are
more than stunning ruggedness. In
blond-curled youth, did you still have this
full-blown confidence, this solid
stepping hold upon yourself–as
if the eyes of all were chained to

every part of you at once? Your
actions seem deliberated,
as if you’re picking flowers of your
movements, casting off the weeds and
thorns, rejoicing then in final
posy of yourself. I’ve long

admired you–once, from scared, shy distance–
hoping I would break down what stood
locked between us with this coy,
supposed charm–and then from new and
comfortable strangerhood. I
see you now as friend that has the

daunting gift of pulling my face
into unassuming smile when
days are at their darkest depth–each
time your nonchalance is more than
satisfying. I’ve been waiting
for your re-affirming gaze, and

when it’s granted, like the dog that
waits for you outside of school, my
tail is wildly wagging and
it takes all that I have to stop
myself from leaping
uncontrollably with joy.

class fourteen

Megan

You sit in class, eyes closed, waving slightly
as a weed in a soft breeze. You’re hoping
you’re not falling asleep, but jolt to a
sudden wakefulness and realize that you
had almost stepped off of the ledge that hangs
between consciousness and the tumble toward

dreaming. I know why you feel so tired.
You went on another adventure last
night. Your whimsied, spontaneous drive to
keep exploring the simple fact that you
are free here shows that perhaps you always
have been. Striking in obvious beauty, your face

is a mask hiding the complexity
of your fear of failure: flawless, it hides
what you never show to others. Still, I
envy more than just your petalled skin: the
adventures that you incite (although you
lack follow-through otherwise), your hollered

embrace of life and those that surround you.
Even that–your devoted following–
becomes a point of my passive envy.
I sometimes try to pinpoint what part of
you draws people in as a bonfire on
a cold, moonless night–and I can only

answer, “It’s just her, it’s just that thing she
has that makes them want her,” and I want you,
too, in spite of it. Those doe eyes, caught in
a spacey stare, your voice at once thrilled and
flattened–you are always singing, dancing,
spinning, leaping. Still masking mood, keeping

all of your depth inside until your mouth
starts releasing the flood of all you’d love
to hide, but forget to. It seems that you
forget so many things: meetings, tests, names–
but always seem to remember your need,
your steady burning for a life on fire.