Uncountable | Marina Cooper
twenty-one desks, three windows, one flag,
you call down the roster, stumbling,
slaughtering syllables and wincing in shame, you
count the children: they chorus present.
a student holds her soul up to the window then stuffs it
back in the heel of her shoe. she approaches your desk
to throw out her gum, and asks,
why are you even here?
the children are monstrous, their dreams spilling forth
like wounds, bubbling, too big for their chairs.
you recheck your roster, then check it again:
all boys in the class are named Jake.
a trio of wraiths congregates by the pencil sharpener,
tendrils curling towards the hallway light.
they reminisce about the days of duck and cover;
you wonder if you should call the office.
count the children – someone’s missing.
(are you sure?)
count again.
one of the Jakes, in a basketball hoodie, is sitting on the ceiling.
come down, you say, but he pulls the drawstrings tight until
the hood closes over his face, faceless
he scuttles into the corner.
you would not begrudge him his freedom, except,
in case of emergency you better know
where all the kids went. and yet! he’s reached heights
that his parents could never have dreamed.
a Jake with the tail of a fox asks if he can roam the hall.
you tell him to fill out a pass, but as his fingers
reach for his phone, he blinks and it falls
right
through.
you shrug, and check the wall clock which is tick-ticking
backwards. the wraiths in the corner giggle while a girl
whose name you think starts with a k asks if 47
(the president) will be on the test.
foxtail Jake is missing.
you go to the door but the shade is pulled, handle stuck,
all locked down like a ballpoint pen at the bank teller’s window.
the PA system yells, be very afraid.
Jake with the roses sprouting out of his ears
asks how much longer you all have to stand
in silence while waiting for the all clear and you say,
what? and check your phone, but the battery’s dead.
the Jake you recognize from sixth period english,
(the class you used to teach last year)
begins to cry, silently, over the wet lump of clay on the table
that he’s shaped into a prayer.
he tells you he wants to go home.
you tell him it’s just 90 more minutes
but he’s already down on the floor,
digging at the tiles, hands sinking through linoleum
as soft as fresh dirt, and he
digs and digs until there’s a hole,
yawning, open, and he crawls inside
and lies down,
eyes closed.
the clay on the table gets up and walks away.
you call the main office for help, and they tell you
the Jake you know isn’t on your roster;
the secretary says to count the children, then offers a list
of names but it’s long – greater than all the kids in your room,
so long that she’s going and going, she’ll name every ghost
since Jefferson County but then you hang up.
still, her voice echoes. you
count the children
and turn on the lights
and see them massed beneath the evil eye
(read: small paper stop-sign)
and Jake in the basketball hoodie has come down from the ceiling,
standing solemn with the rest of his class,
and your voice shakes as you
count the children
and the lights flicker and then
the bell
finally
rings.
About the Author:
Marina Cooper is an Asian American poet and fiction writer based in the D.C. area. Though she wrote “Uncountable” as a high school teacher, she is now pursuing an MA in English at Georgetown University. She also holds a BA in English from Princeton University. Her writing has previously appeared in Apparition Lit and Hey Alma.
