Seventh Grade Science in the Partially Burned Classroom

Adaptation of a poem from The Lifting Dress by Lauren Berry

Of all the things I learned in Catholic school, the definition of the calorie was most believable. The calorie, they taught me,

as though it was an object that could be felt,

the calorie, the science teacher—a nun—said, with her hand resting on her hip and her elbow sticking out like a pointed needle, is a unit on energy. The amount of heat needed to raise one gram of water

by one degree. Heat. I thought, I knew it.

I knew there was a name to call this fever in my body, knew that what passed my lips was the cause of the sweats that would form around neck

while I was seated at the table.

At dinner, my fork would vibrate in my hand to the movement of my shaking knees, and the next day I would look down and see more breast, more thigh,

and the burning would intensify.

At the following meal I placed a mirror on the table and dropped my jaw, shoveling ice cubes into the back of my throat, and swallowing.

I left the frost on my tongue calm my senses.