Citizenship, Grade 5

The box coughed dust, then gave it up,

this thin, cream-colored sheet.

A memory, bitter in the cup,

not wholly sour, not quite sweet.

Mrs. Peterson, neat and prim,

her looping hand, a tiny chain.

'Talks out of turn'—a solemn hymn

sung just for me, again, again.

A B- in 'Citizenship,' a red

line drawn beneath my name.

Did she know what stirred inside my head,

the small, unruly, restless flame?

That child, all elbows, wanting to break

the silence, just to hear a sound.

That rigid mark, for goodness sake,

still keeps me pinned, to solid ground.