San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly

JOSHUA ROARK
Body Language

Not all, but some in the classroom laugh,

young fleshy noises bubbling up

around your words, cutting instructions in half.

You smile at their smiles and take your cue to shut-up.

The pencil ends wiggle in their growing grips

like the tails of so many happy little dogs.

“Let the words fall out,” you tell them. “Feel the drips

and let honesty spring from your young mind’s fog.”

Not all, but some scribble honestly on the page,

their hands dancing a quick beat of hurt and play

to create, to dig, to lift and reach and rage

toward the graphite honesty they struggle to say.

“But why’s it gotta be honest?” she asks through her gum.

You shrug.  She shrugs.  They write.  Not all, but some.