The Old Teacher’s Story

a room full of fluttering children:
I feel their eyes piercing the loose fabric of my back
as I misspell at the black board

when they titter they don’t cover their mouths
and their teeth are sharp

they wear the colors of a violent sky
if they wear anything at all

I tell them to repeat after me
as they hold my death in their brand-new palms
and they stroke its back gently and smile