Self-portrait with bitten fingernails and ruler

The nuns come down our rows for what
they call "inspection"— they start
at the nape after pulling our uniform 

collars back to check for grime; then 
they peer into the waxy dusk of each 
dark child's ear. We can even hear 

their breathing: pale mosquitoes 
clothed in voluminous gray habits, 
feet in rubber-soled work shoes. 

Then the girls are made 
to stand; they'll check if skirt 
lengths meet the fingertip test. Last,

each of us has to lay both hands 
on the desk, fingers splayed out 
like nervous starfish before a piano 

recital. This is when they wield 
the ruler most: for dirt under
the fingernails, for torn cuticles;

for the whites at the tips mown
across in haphazard patterns by teeth
sometime in the night during sleep.