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Clean
- University of Wisconsin Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
Clean If a mother phoned about the boys her daughter ran with, if a brush threaded more than a loom of pale strands, if a finger brought to the brow a bubble of blood, the principal carded our hair, two wooden tongue depressors borrowed from the nurse so his fingers wouldn’t touch. Our heads bent before him in the quiet hall. He lifted the light-catching webs, riving a white row. Down the line the language of his hands spread, and the mark of the dirty child was the switch. The boy who loved me first expected the bright blood.When he left I waited for color to spread across the white stick, the red line signifying my plurality. I counted time with my tongue, naked from the waist, raw light reflecting my bared knees like spools of silk— the blank circle, glaring, negative. I bowed my head for the rasp against my scalp, face rushed with blood. Clean, he said. Move on. -63- ...