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She stands apart, brooding, just over there,
not at the cool end of the mobbed playground,
where all the others stand or mill around,
but at the dumpster end, her cobalt hair
spiked out, green nose ring, studded gauntlet gloves,
T-shirt showing a cartoon cormorant
attacking several cartoon turtle doves.
She tells her truth this way, but tells it slant,
in outward signs meant all as much to hide,
as to reveal, the grief or rage inside—
acting it out, maybe, school being a stage,
even a theater, the actors also being
each other's audience, seen, but seeing,
engaged, but also driven to engage.
The others note her now and then, and she
notes back their pageantry, playing each
to each pat versions of teen normalcy
while she keeps off apart, a foil, to teach
them all about the dark side, what it means,
maybe, for ballers, geeks, chicks—grunge queens.
And maybe they teach her in their own way
about how pain can get us left alone
when we both shade and show it, make it known
but unknown, say what really we can't say
in that it falls outside the script. The mood
is Orphic. Who knows but a kid will feel
how hurt she is and cop an attitude
to show the others that the play is real—
itself its take-away-and will have been
even after the bell has rung them in.