First Day, the Writing Workshop

First Day, the Writing Workshop

By Jessie Brown

I stood in an ocean that was clear

and not—thin black ribbons hanging, folding,

gold; green moss; silt; brown branched strands;

and tiny moving things between them,

black dashes darting, reticulated, rowing

with rows and rows of legs.

The classroom was tall, white-painted, angular,

not square.  It narrowed back 

to a high window.  What I want you to do is receive,

and stop thinking.  Eleven chairs.

The closeness.  The uneven floor.  The light.

I saw a woman floating in the shallows,

only her breasts and face above the surface,

arms flung back, eyes closed, her short pale hair

hanging down under the water.

Something is eating my hands

at night.  I wake with oval welts on

three left fingers, and the right wrist.

White grease of cortisol, pink calamine

drying to chalky rings.  Everything itches.