Poetry by Katie Kemple

                ​mark sebastian CC



Nice girl 

“You look like such a nice girl,” 
my third-grade teacher said. 
“But you’re not!” she tacked on 

at the end. While I stood 
stunned outside her room. 
The teacher across the hall

didn’t like me either, gave me 
a lecture so harsh I cried 
my eyes out before a field trip. 

I held my urine so long, 
I peed my pants in her class. 
Once, she called on me 

to spell “does” and I spelled 
“dose” instead. And I got a shot 
of her fury— (and my own 

embarrassment.) Her name, 
literally a cane with a K, 
I kept getting hit with again 

and again. And I’m sure I must 
have been a terrible pain. 
Rolled my eyes too distinctly, 

some said. The school therapist
took me out of class. And I felt 
like a failure at last, pumping 

my legs on an empty swing-set, 
talking about feelings 
while my peers learned inside. 

I tried so hard, so hard to do 
as I was told. And I did for a while. 
But rage comes out eventually. 

It does, in doses, again and again. 
While the metal chains sang: 
restrain, restrain, restrain, retrain. 
​

​

Katie Kemple (she/her) grew up in the Shawangunks of New York and currently lives in San Diego. Her poems have appeared in The Collidescope, The Racket, Lucky Jefferson, Olney, Dwelling, and Right Hand Pointing, among others. 

---