NIGHT SCHOOL TEACHER
I postponed my satchel of your poems
and wondered who I am to teach the young,
--Ellen Bryant Voigt “The Last Class”
The skin around her eyes is wrinkled and puckered,
so delicate it seems not even her own hands
should touch it. Staring, she says, Sorry, I didn’t know
eight lines isn’t the same as eight sentences. Sparkling gold
between eyelash and eyelid, lips bright pink
since the first day—thin, curling when she speaks. Lips
the same as my high school English teacher’s
who wore a mass of silver bangles and charm bracelets
on each wrist. Which of the two is older?
My teacher who’ll retire any year now, or my student
who wants—what every student wants, I suppose—to please
the teacher, to effortlessly scribble the right letters
in the right order, perfectly punctuated.
Two nights a week I drag
my briefcase into school. My students work days,
have families at home. I don’t pretend to know
what thin, pale skin contains, hides, or has earned. Nor can I
speak with any expertise to their
gray hair, bald heads, pregnant bellies. Who am I
to teach the old? Thanks for understanding, she shakes
my hand. I used to be soft-spoken like you.
This poem first appeared in Regarding Arts and Letters journal.