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By Rachael Li Ming Chong

Put your rucksack on the shoe rack.
The green biros you keep
finding in your pocket, discard them
in the bowl of keys. Throw in the glare
of the projector, the squeak of the expiring
whiteboard marker, the uneasy silence
when no one wanted to answer the question.
The phone call where you track the voice
of a parent, slowly unravelling.
That suitcase you trundled
to the bus stop for a weekend
of feverish marking, you’ll repack it
with tomorrow’s hows and whys,
an evidence-of-need round robin,
rolls of bullet point
lists of what went well, even better
ifs, seating plans ripe
with dots of pupil premium,
fierce pilot lights
fuelled by the forgiveness of lunch.
You’ve learned how to spit out
the expletives at the back
of your throat, a tray full of stars
and smiley stickers, to unturn
your neck for every trailing Ms,
a spell for summoning.
Each morning it startles you.
The first pressing of sun, slipping
through the bouquet 
of raised hands
that steep delightful by your window.
Higher, you insist
scooping back the spilled
particles of light, frantic. 
Reach higher and claim your fistful of sky.

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Written Word ‘Head’ poems