by Armen Davoudian In my all-boys school they’re all dumber than me. I sit in the back and read André Gide inside The Elements of Chemistry. I draw a naked girl with pointy breasts for my classmates, who fold her into a plane and fly it across the room. For the midterm, I make a cheatsheet in Armenian which our Persian teachers cannot read. When the others leave, I stay with a friend to study. Behind the stacks, he unbuttons his uniform and then lies down. Leaning over his body like Ali Baba over the thieves’ treasure, I copy out the answers on his chest with what I know even then is too much pleasure. Co-winner of the 2021 Poetry International Prize
