prewriting

Joseph Yap, the boy

with the square head and

arms that seem to have been stretched

to an abnormally long, noodley shape

slouches

farther down, if that were possible

until I worry he will slither out

around the bottom of his

attached desk and escape

in the form of a puddle.

But no, Joseph perseveres,

letting neither accent

nor posture,

stop him from

shooting down my bright

assertion that

everyone has a story to tell.

I no story. Everything is so bored.

Lucky for him, I

have an affinity for students

like this, with the courage

to speak a language strange

enough still to wrangle tongues,

offend soft pallets

with its arcs and sailing curves

and renegade conjugations.

I tell him: think. When were you

last in big trouble?

He thinks, because I’ve told him to.

His eyes grow big, and flicker.

I burn down a house.

He brings the whole class

into nervous howls with this.

We wish he'd master past tense.

Wow, I stammer, straight-faced.

Was everyone okay? Emphasis

on was.

Oh, yeah. Sure. It was more just...little

fire. Everyone okay. I get in big trouble,

though.

Well, yeah.

You've got

your story, sir. He smirks.

He picks up

his pencil and strikes paper,

blessedly silent, sending out only

little flint-like scratches.

He bristles

with the warmth of it, the story

that has stayed so long inside of him

leaping out onto the page.