She appears

in the doorway

of geography class

sneezing,

then slapping

her mouth for sudden blasphemy.

Mr. Lusk beckons

with a gentle nod,

invisible hands nudge her forward,

prodding

the frightened calf

through slaughterhouse doors:

the new girl.

Cautious eyes peer

through a crooked mudflap

of blueblack bangs.

She wipes her nose against her sleeve

and we can tell

she doesn't have a daddy,

that her mama works at the glue factory

with hair starched high like rising sea foam.

Mr. Lusk leads her to an empty desk,

the girl's odor wagging behind

like a faithful dog.

We pinch our noses and wave

our hands to clear the air.

We say she stinks

like bacon fat,

Puked milk,

Sweaty socks,

Rotten eggs.

Mr. Lusk is smiling.

Class, what is an atoll?

But we know

he smells her too.