The Bell

We moved when the bell said move,

stopped mid-game when it said stop,

arms folded, eyes to the front,

answering our surnames to the roll.

The bell —

it rang us into rows.

Nobody met the ringer.

The ringing was enough.

Some rings meant only lessons.

One meant the world might end:

heads low, knees to chin,

practising for the flash

like it was long division.

The bell —

years out of the yard,

a buzzer going somewhere

stands us up before we mean to.

Somewhere it still rings

for children in their rows,

learning the one lesson

under all the lessons:

when it rings, you're someone's.

The bell —

one drill, one morning,

a girl kept her seat and finished

the sentence she was reading.

And the sky did not fall in.