by Christine H. Chen Jon Tyson When Mirabelle with her pale yellow lunch pail trudges into the schoolyard we’re licking our lips like hungry wolves, we’re elbowing each other, we bury our cackles behind our palms, here comes Mirabelle who has nothing belle in her, Mirabelle of long flimsy coffee hair sticking on her face like feathers on wet backs of ducks, Mirabelle of quince skin with squinting eyes the way we screw ours when we bite into lemons, Mirabelle of stick legs and