the test

I remember
staring at the bright oval
clock at the front of the room,
nailed to the cinder block
wall,
the black hands
like iron
moving fast
towards the end when
a bell would ring, and someone
would say,
put down your pencils.
the test is over.
I can conjure up sweat
and anxiety, even now
at this age.
my hands wet, my mouth dry.
my tongue full
of sand, thick with unspeaking.
fearing that at last
they'll know for sure how
dumb i truly am.