Silence means gathering,
the accumulation of sound
pulled in and black-holed down;
a cheerleader's pleated skirt chafing against nylons
as she uncrosses her legs three chairs away,
dull pencils rubbing numbers
on papers that riffle in the manufactured air.
The classroom has its own silence,
but hers is different. It could mean ascension,
she thinks on brighter days, seeing herself rising
over the plastic chairs, the lined-up beakers, the silver swan
necks of utility sinks all in a row, the teacher's finely
chalk-dusted hair. It could mean they might see her
as someone beyond and unreachable, someone better.
It could mean they might see her.
In the laboratory, they learn
that weather is predicted based on existing conditions,
atmospheres charged or uncharged, fronts
which are moving or stagnant.
But how to forecast the way a silent girl will react
when she's finally noticed, pulled off
her invisible cloud by first one girl,
then another, the blondes and brunettes
swarming round from all compass points.
Here, guidelines must create themselves,
and it's important to take notes
about the behavior of storm clouds encroaching
on quiet air, the way
that calm eye dissipates, loses ground,
until overhead, all you can see is
the angry swirl, the devouring storm.