for Lena Bezawork Gronlund
Untouched, she began to soak
her Maths textbook with her eyes.
The air of the afternoon, steam,
which rose from a pot of boiled water:
voices in the class, drenched in sweat.
Yet, she shook like a curtain in the wind.
Yet, she covered her life with a cardigan.
Yet, she rubbed mentholated balm
all over her discomfort.
The entire class looked; eyes sold
cheaply to confusion.
Out of this pool of ignorance,
a boy arose like a saviour. Planted
this female fever on his back,
stepped out of the class. Turned
towards the school clinic.