Atomic Numbers
Mr. Gardner in 10th grade told us there was no purpose
to mitochondria, just function. Your lungs turn black
in a day if you smoke, black as that ink streaking
your sorry hands, thundered bald Mr. Strepek in Print Shop,
and stay black five years, even if a cigarette never touches
your lips again, and your breath stinks too. But Karen took
Home Ec., so she kept flicking Virginia Slims from the pack,
blowing onion rings into my face. Miss Testasecca taught us
the tangent is a function of the right triangle. Miss Piilo
made us memorize atomic numbers. Uranium: Number 235—
no wonder it's radioactive. Pb, sign for lead, stood for something
like plumbus in Latin—or was it Greek? After semester break
she came back as Mrs. Giglio. Lily, she told us it meant
in Italian, turning to write a formula on the blackboard,
tugging at her tightened skirt. Things are getting tougher
all the time, Chucky Klein quipped. Years later he got
himself shot reporting Jonestown, survived, moved to TV.
I want to ask old Mr. Curran right now, How come The Lord
of the Flies has to have Piggy drop those glasses and why
did that 17-year-old leave her newborn girl in the dumpster
last week and what'll they do to her now? Who's the rough
beast he'd say in that brogue that caressed us like the tongue
of a cat. Some days you just want to be toes, curled inward
or pressed against another warm body until first recess crawls
by—then Mr. Adamson's supposed to teach us how to shift
from second to third and accelerate into the straightaway.
Copyright © Roy Jacobstein All rights reserved
Witness, 2000, Crime in America issue
