by Gene Fehler
Bad Girl by Kyle Hemmings
“A moment’s terror.”
The words remind her of Miss Albers.
“A moment’s terror” has to be the best oxymoron,
she thinks, as the moment spreads across weeks, months.
Sometimes, like during soccer games racing downfield
when feet feel for the ball and the ball explodes
into a goal, cheers hide the terror for a minute or two,
but only until a momentary stillness uncovers screams.
She still sees the open eyes of a dead Miss Albers,
who had taught them so much in this year’s
English class, including “oxymoron.”
When will it end, the sound of gunshots, the screaming,
the images of friends bleeding, of classmates being carried
away forever? Will there come again the joy of sleeping
through the night, of walking without fear through bright sunlit days?
She does not watch TV anymore.
What is real she does not enjoy;
what is not real is without meaning.
She stands in front of a mirror, practices smiling,
She’s almost forgotten how.
She feels as if she, at age fifteen, had a stroke,
numbing her face. Numbing more than her face.
“A moment’s terror.”
She senses that terror is afraid of smiles so she tries again.
She knows she dare not fail. But when the face in the mirror
finally smiles back at her, she barely recognizes who it is.