Matthew threw his chair at the window.
The shatterproof glass held his reflection.
He didn’t swear. Shrugging off a hand,
he sat down and gripped the silence.

He pressed harder with his pencil:
sky alive, whirling with black holes;
stars, steel nails hammered in;
his house loud with spiky light.

Matthew never drew anything else.
We checked everything in the case notes:
nothing. But we knew at three minutes
past twelve, he’d attack the glass.

His secret was air-tight. We offered maths,
its order and truth; read him stories:
he couldn’t settle to tanned characters
whistling tunes, rooms with wallpaper.

He’d only draw. By chance, Jane asked
why he’d rubbed out the garden gate.
Matthew stopped, stiffened: The noise.
He’d say no more. In the days to come

someone heard it: the caretaker strolled past
like he’d done that time and his shoes
squeaked, squeaked like the black shoes
of that other man. They squeak.

*
From Magma 85, Poems for schools



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