"Would anyone like to read their poems?" Jack asks, he twirls a pencil in one hand, his other hand supporting his resting chin.

Hands shoot up, but like always, Jack calls on the only girl he sees--Catherina.

The other girls sigh, defeated, as Catherina walks up to the front. She cocks a hip out in Jack's direction, and slowly turns her notebook pages until she finds what she's looking for.

She brushes strands of hair away that stick to her lip.

"I want to be," she whispers. "held in your hands.

hands that i can fit my entire body

and soul into.

i want to feel the age

of your kiss

between my legs.

i want to touch places

you have

that other people don't.

i want to be yours

if it means

you'll make that sound

again."

The room is stunned to silence, not by the skill of the poem, no one ever really cares if a poem sounds good or not. It's all about what a poem does--or doesn't--say.

"What's--what's the title?" Jack asks, breaking the carefully hierarchic silence.

"Hound."