high school

I hold on to my desk
as the world carries its shadow around
like the train on a wedding dress.
It moves quickly.
It moves angrily.
It is loud.
I hear colors and see words shimmy on the overhead.
I see voices and hear the things they are thinking about me.
I am not myself and I am not like them.
The veins on my teacher’s hands know.
The backs of all their necks know.
The cop with his walkie talkie knows.
My crying mother knows.

I don't know anything
but that if I don’t hold on to this desk
I will float away.

I don't know anything yet
about how to hold on. I just know
I don't want to float away.