The thick oak doors swept the cold granite,
pushing a shiver across the silent corridor.
Beside the gridded window a crow turned
and shrugged. Beyond this
a Poplar ached.
Silence until out. The exam over,
it was the only thing
left in his hands: a dictionary,
all his words in their nothingness.
First a kick (it would have told him of this:
An indentation in [his] bottle, reducing internal capacity).
Then he throttled it with fingers and thumb, seeing it dumb
and stubborn in his hand. He eyed the length of the hallway
and beside him the crow fled. Fucking English he said.
He sent it half the way, a drop
kick. Students cheered. He cleared it down the other end
with a lob,
a clumsy throw learned somewhere along the line.
As it was flung the pages splayed, crying a petrified rustle,
and its jacket hung off one side. It tried to paddle
but fell from its fluster and skidded,
raw paper on dusty stone.
Next a stamp on the spine, the polished shoe’s hold prolonged,
imprinting. Some staff gasped
as it was bowled into the yard,
the boy running in again, his trailing leg ready…
Others followed and hysteria of slaughter
broke out in the yard. Dented books
bounced of the walls
and rained on the tarmac; dust covers
tearing, naked hard backs
breaking, insides
gutted, each book
ditched on the concrete.
Spectators howled, teachers finally intervened,
pulling kids away, lumping the beaten shapes into the bin,
all words alive.