# The Rupture/The Silence **by simone j. banks** The classroom breathes warm vanilla sugar first chill of winter fogs the windows cloudy come for one of us, come for us all: a poster warns across the room a teacher asks for silence the students instead flouting wildflowers in a circle, the black girls outnumber the black boys who scatter to outnumber the brown boys who outnumber no one speaking Spanish to themselves some of the black girls sit pretty and neat some of the black girls sit wide and long and some curl tightly in a desk too small already full bloom roses open for spring. Most of the black boys are teasing cute brushing waves flashing white teeth while the brown boys huddle and laugh baseball the classroom is a loud hot Tuscan sun but the teacher is calm eggshell a cool sapphire still asking; when’s the last time you felt like an outcast? a girl with long thick eye lashes looks up heavy and rolls back into her coffin shaped neon green nails that hold a cell phone tightly, missing the glittered box passing hand to hand asking for stories to tell when living was no rainbow to reach for – there is an orchestra of hopeless trigger heard as death walks in with ease, a breathless rush from those who’ve played truth/or/dare with it before and I am questioning: how do you water a dead thing? There is no faith in tomorrow and no blame: cuz sometimes you just don’t know how to say it a black boy explains, facing an untied sneaker what’s the point if nothing gets better? The teacher is silent, the classroom hums grey the glittered box lands on a girl with cinnamon afro-puffs on her perfectly round head eyes soft brown almonds: maybe, she starts if I were not here, I wouldn’t hear my mama crying [at night] for the bills she can’t pay and then everything becomes rock-n-roll, confessions louder than any chord: I tried, I thought, I failed they all sing – and so, how do you water a dead thing? the wildflowers are still facing sun’s heat sipping on their last – can you hear them asking? Secrets in their chest circulate transparent [the word I know for this] is still missing the glittered box weighs heavier continuing to reflect the apparitions seated twin – are they aware of their inhabiting chill? I knew a boy, a soft voice spoke, who had it all and yet… we know his true confession; I too, am thinking of this choice and is my voice reaching you? If a star basketball player could hide, take rope, why can’t i? the teacher has become desert clay, full of something curious and brightly asking questions in scared response: is there no one to talk to? Where on me is the air? I am only witness but I want to tell of the rupture hold the silence their mamas are crying, their daddies are trying and the babies are leaning into fugitivity. The ache is mossy and there’s only been one hour to hold their emerald desires. I am listening for more color. What is their shade of choice? Their cries are everywhere ruby and hot; they are not afraid of death only disappearing for relief arms first into murky indigo waters or to float in evening’s navy air for another world completely now realized on my foreign ears and I am begging for more.