A Meaning of the Term—Science Teacher
for Dee Kalb
Tashkent, Uzbekistan, Fall, 1997

Twice that morning a dove,
confused, flew through her class
to smash against glass in the corridor.
Each time she coaxed it to freedom.

The third time the poor dumb bird
flew through, she followed in its dazed wake,
stalked it to a still moment, and, ever so gently,
grasped it like a new and dangerous idea,

slowly opened a window, and gave it
the world with a toss, a light lifting,
up and out, to the other side of the building,
a suggestion the world is larger than a room,

or one side of a building,
a concept she daily introduces
to students caught within walls,
a nudging, a guiding, a release.
                                                  
First published in Bellowing Ark (1998)




Her Name Is

​
seven sons and a daughter four more born dead
one dress for church one pair of pants
to scrub trailer floors and clothes in boiled well water
flash cards to drill her children in reading and math
aged and retarded cradled as her own
brightest student in her high school and college
hours daily before a stove kneading and forming leftovers
the child who spoke only her name
clinging for hours to become the family's best mind
her potter's wheel shaping clay like so many lives
alone in a trailer with kids
her husband at sea for years
mumps measles mono chicken pox poison ivy hives survived
Mark Twain read aloud seven kinds of homemade bread
and religion thrived best in private
no one told her how much they cared
suicide prevented by children afraid to lose life itself
don't know her never did but this
is a thank you note a son's naming


Previously published in an earlier version in Northridge Review (1985)


Genealogy: from an Old Teacher to New Graduates
La Paz, Bolivia,  Spring, 2010
 
My path winds uphill, down through valley,
across creek, lake, and river, always seeking the ocean,
wading through fields of barley, corn, and unknown crops;
 
now and again the young greet me
with a grin, a question, and a puzzled look,
and I wave as I pass on my way up
 
the next hill, negotiate the next stone outcropping,
and the young shout they will see me again, and I concur— 
knowing they won't and it won't matter;
 
I leave so they can arrive; I leave notes,
pictures, puzzles, but no answers,
as I have never had any;  only this— 
 
as each moment contains the seeds of the next
and the ashes of what went before, so we are
our progenitors and our children, biological or otherwise--
 
and so will they be;
so will you be.