Mrs. Bellamy addressed the class. “Well, I’m looking forward to hearing your poems.”

“Do we have to read them out, miss?” said Larry Cottage, a nervous hare-lipped boy.

“Of course. Poetry is as much about the art of delivery as it is about the act of creation. I’m sure your poem is just grand, Larry.”

“It’s not, miss.”

Smothering him with a cloying crimson smile, she glanced around for her first volunteer. She stood very rigid, her hands coupled tightly at her belly, which gave the odd impression that she had her own breasts in a headlock. The boys knew she was eager to get to Raj, who wrote poems they felt were just like the ones in the book.

“Mr. Arden.” She settled on a heavy boy with a doomed expression. “Why don’t you read us yours?”

“Mine’s about a shark, miss.”

“And how does that relate to the war, Michael?”

“Not sure, miss.”

“That’ll be a question for the class, then.”

Arden raised his scrap of paper and read:

“With your razor-sharp teeth you tear the flesh.

Glide, glide the silver bullet swiftly through the swirling mass.

You rip out the guts and crunch up the eyes.

Glide, glide the silver bullet swiftly through the swirling mass.

That’s all I’ve got, miss.”

“Well, Michael, that’s very promising.” She turned to the class. “What is the shark in Michael’s poem? How is it working? What is the name of what Michael is doing?”

Her bright pursed lips sought the room and settled hopefully on Raj, who would usually answer her questions when no one else had, but he was still staring out the window.

“Rajiv?”

He looked toward her, clearly having no idea what she had just asked.

Quickly she addressed the whole class again. “What is it called?”

“The shark, miss?” Morton Seymore said.

“Yes.”

“Glide?”

Some of the boys tittered.

“I don’t mean its name—and I don’t think glide is the shark’s name, Mr. Seymore. I think glide is what it’s doing. No, Michael’s shark is a metaphor.” She wrote this on the board. “Met-a-phor. We have gone over this a number of times, class. The shark is a metaphor for war. The war is being compared to a deadly shark.

“Larry, how about you?”

“I don’t really want to read mine, miss.”

“Come along.” Frowning slightly, she tightened her bosom lock.

“Mine’s not a metaphor.”

“That’s all right.”

Despite his seeming nervousness, Larry stood up and read with melodramatic gusto, almost shouting the poem:

“Out of the trenches Nigel his men led.

‘Take that, Jerry,’ he said.

‘You’ll all soon be dead.

Filled with Blighty lead.’

Achtung! Achtung! replied the square head.

Nigel fell into a panzer’s tread,

Which smashed his head.

And his dog, who was called Old Red,

Sat on his grave and howled until he was dead.

But at least he still had his head.”

He looked proudly at Mrs. Bellamy.

“The dog had Nigel’s head?” she said.

“The dog had its own head, miss. Which Nigel didn’t. Told you it wasn’t any good, miss.” Suddenly miserable, he sat down.