Rewrites

On Pedagogy and Doubts - Rewrite

My hands are cold; I press them to my face
And stare at the brilliant pages
I read something about pedagogy
And it means nothing.

I pause to look at these hands, clasped under my chin.
These are stranger’s hands
Too smooth and white and prim
These don’t belong to me.

The whorls in my fingertips are always black.
Charcoal, conte, and tempura settle in like old friends
Plaster chunks and kerosene,
Newspaper print and pastel dust my palms.

I miss the dirt under my nails
From digging pinecones out of the mulch,
I miss the telltale smear of ink that lingers
On the middle finger of my right hand after the pen is gone.

I am afraid that without paint, my fingers
Will fail to create meaning
And in all this education
I’m absorbing less than ever.

I want to create universes and microcosms,
I need to share my knowledge
To leave my brushstrokes on this page—
I want to live with ink in my fingerprints.


Inside the Glass Rewrite

Today I saw how brilliant the world outside was
Each leaf of each tree more dazzling
Than a drop of gold
Each river pebble, clear like wind
But that was on the other side of the glass.

There was rain when I woke up
But I know nothing of it now;
Inside the concrete walls of the elementary school.
On the other side of the glass
Autumn is falling

A bulb flickers over head
Its fluorescence giving out
The fourth graders are cutting paper designs
Heads cast down over dutiful fingers
Carefully they peel away the colors

I watch them and wonder
If they feel trapped like me:
Ready to run from these concrete stalls
To gasp at the fierceness of the wind on my cheek
That what is worth learning.

An hour passes—students’ shoes squeak on the tiles
As they line up. Their whispers loud in the airless room
Teachers urge them to be quiet,
This is the task at hand:
To learn to exist beneath layers of glass.

Soon I will be a teacher, not a student
And I will hold the authority of concrete in my hands.
I whisper to myself, afraid
That I will be monotone and joyless
When the schools have had their fill.

By the time I emerge, it will be evening
A dusk, drab cool of winter
The students hurry onto buses
Bundled in nylon and down jackets
Encased in metal and rubber.

I drive my car through the wet cold world
On the other side of the glass
I wonder what the leaves are thinking
As they tremble down to earth.
.

Doors Rewrite

My door always sticks
As the wood swells on humid days
At the first touch of snowy weather
And summer thunderstorms.

Some doors are welcoming
With honey-warm light
Shining from partially lidded windows
Round knobs and easy steps.

These doors greet me with open arms
Paint peels from the lintel
But I step inside without hesitation
Knowing mom & dad are waiting

There are doors I wait outside—a stranger’s door
I wait and listen for the thud of footsteps
Wondering when he will answer
Wondering what face he’ll wear

Some doors swing too easily
And I stumble into the light
Not ready to go home and leave
The soft familiarity of friendship.

In the morning the doors are heavy
Making me strain my shoulders
To catch their cold metal and glass
And keep them from closing their jaws.

Some are locked, and without the key
I pace back and forth—
I bang my fists on hollow wood
While empty windows reflect my face

But some doors, like mine, just stick—
I don’t know whether I want to be here or there
Am I going or staying—
I need a little push:
Then I’m out, through the door,
Into the world.


Another Place II

The first of November:
It’s cold in my room.
Today the blue sheets are bluer in the windy light
Tangled around our feet they’re hiding.

Get under the covers, I say
And we pull them up around our faces
Like two cocoons hiding in a fog of change.
I breathe into his shoulder, like
This is the only source of warmth in a bare world—
This is some other place.

I know the wind that whispers around the windows
Is the same wind that bites my cheeks.
I listen to the whisper of breath
Soft, like wind in frozen pine trees.

Time to leave, I say to the hum of his heart
But here I am, in my blue cocoon—
If I leave the comfort of his breath on my cheek
I don’t know where I will go from here.


The Safer Thing
I feel trapped today. It’s all wait, wait, wait.
I wait for the words to come;
To spring from my throat like a marvelous well.
I wait for the boy to explain
Why I need to feel so lonely
When we’re together.

The boy says, “How are you doing?”
And I say, “I’m ok.”
That must be the answer—so
We sit side by side
And think about everything and nothing.

I reach out to touch him—as though
My fingertips could form some connection,
As though through his eyes I could see past and present—capture
What he thinks in this instant.

He shrugs me off
And he is silent, as though everything
That needs to be said is already there
Hovering in my abandoned fingertips

Last night, we argued about what food to order.
What a safe thing to fight about, I think—
But it wasn’t safe when he hid behind his glowering eyes
And said, “You’re allowed to be silent and I’m not?”
Maybe the words felt bitter on his tongue.

I need to believe in my silence when I hurry home
With tears behind my eyes.
I doubt whether words are safety—is
Silence not a safer thing?

If I don’t say anything he won’t know
How small, how vulnerable I feel
When my fingertips touch nothing.
Here, in my silence, I am safe.