Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue One

Iain Macdonald


For weeks afterwards, my pen would trip on her presence in the roll book, my head half-rise, involuntarily towards that empty desk. Others — dropped, transferred, expelled — were summarily excised with one bold stroke; yet she remained a momentary reminder each weekday morning. Until today, tallying grades at semester's end, I suddenly, impulsively gouged a horizontal line through her name, a mark harsh and definitive as burnt-black tire tracks cutting ruthlessly across a rain-slicked highway.