Breathe deep even if it means you wrinkle

your nose from the fake-lemon antiseptic
 

of the mopped floors and wiped-down

doorknobs. The freshly soaped necks
 

and armpits. Your teacher means well,

even if he butchers your name like
 

he has a bloody sausage casing stuck

between his teeth, handprints
 

on his white, sloppy apron. And when

everyone turns around to check out
 

your face, no need to flush red and warm.

Just picture all the eyes as if your classroom
 

is one big scallop with its dozens of icy blues

and you will remember that winter your family

took you to the China Sea and you sank

your face in it to gaze at baby clams and sea stars

the size of your outstretched hand. And when

all those necks start to crane, try not to forget

someone once lathered their bodies, once patted them

dry with a fluffy towel after a bath, set out their clothes

for the first day of school. Think of their pencil cases

from third grade, full of sharp pencils, a pink pearl eraser.

Think of their handheld pencil sharpener and its tiny blade.