O.G. Sprinkles is singing Nicki Minaj again,

his body swaying slightly, bumping

the metal tray of papers on my desk—

little scratches with each hip thrust. These

are the things usually left hidden. But it’s ten

minutes before the graduation ceremony,

so we let it slide: the little music and nicknames.

The boys line up at the classroom door, black gowns

blooming around their standard khakied legs,

almost graceful. Beside me, the computer

teacher’s hands circle in ideas

for last night’s leftovers. I nod,

but my eyes are on two boys in the back,

their bodies folded lightly as they lean

against the window, pointing. I follow

their fingers across the dead field

to the fence, lined with trees.

Tilting just so, you can catch

the city and busses, patches of roof tops,

bridal white and shining. Outside

the facility, May is dusting the city

with spring. I should call for them,

tell them, It’s time. Your mothers are here.

They’re in the auditorium. Big smiles.

But I just keep watching them.

And they just keep watching the city, pointing,

as if someone left a door wide open.