Finding a Drowned Coat Was Better than an A in English
Finding a Drowned Coat Was Better than an A in English
At school, a spate of coats, drowned.
Every time it happened, a small murder.
Girls would gather, whisper where the latest
wet victim had been found, how dead it was
blocking the bowl like some shocking throw-up.
The killer was always democratic,
smelly hand-me-down parkas
the latest lime-green maxi coat from a swish place
up town, all treated in the same way.
I found one myself, stood staring at it for an age
as if it had floated up from some magic underground place,
thrilled when I realised the green gaberdine wasn’t mine.
The babble of girls outside came and went, I locked myself in,
studying its saturated darkness
how it ballooned under the rim like a parachute
had a vague notion of what death must be like,
then flung open the door in pink excitement
invited the alpha girls in, to take a look.