By Cassandra Moss
White shirts and grey trousers and
grey skirts and white blouses
except for you
in navy blue with your knees out,
showing off scabs just about
ripe for picking and scooping.
The heat is everywhere.
All the pale bodies swarm.
You are on the ground
tasting the iron in your blood
because you mistimed your jump.
The boys think of you as one of them,
which is just as well since you haven’t
the modesty to be deferent.
It’s a curious thing that we can recall
having felt pain but block
its exact feeling from reappearing.
Like I know north-west England is famed for its rain
yet every school day seems the same –
very slowly cooling.
Cassandra Moss was born in Manchester, England. She moved to London to study and subsequently worked in the film and ELT industries. She now lives and writes by the Irish Sea. Her writing has appeared in numerous journals, including 3 am Magazine, Squawk Back, Posit, Sunspot Lit, KAIROS, The Bangalore Review, The Closed Eye Open, and is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys.