startled

A leftover camera
spooks the dead silhouette.

Slowly, I turn away,
ignoring the moment,
and follow the brightness
out of the room.

A panicked murmur
echos behind me.

September

I was born
to be a teacher;
literally,
born in September,
my Autumn birth
(signifying to some---
beginning of cold
death
winter)
is my familiar
to learning:
fresh students
minds
pencils, paper, notebooks,
classroom.
September has always
cradled me:
even-tempered in spirit,
fair in tone
and complexion.

reading under water

My students must think
I'm reading such a sad poem;
As my eyes cloud,
the words blur,
and a warm drop
slides down
the side of my nose
collecting at my
nostril,
one last time,
before I wipe it away.

The truth is,
this is the very reason,
why I didn't
read
in school.
My body would relax
so much,
I could feel myself
enter the text.
The words blur,
and I would put down the book,
confusing it all for
boredom.

Fifteen years later,
I sit with my fourth-graders
reading together,
and it happens again.
I know this time,
whether prose or poetry,
satire or cynicism,
reading
controls my body,
keeps me afloat.

Gives me the calm
of sitting at the bottom
of a swimming pool,
letting one, two, three. . .
four, five, six. . .
seven, eight, nine
bubbles rise to the surface
as I sink slowly.
It is quiet
at the bottom,
and somehow,
safe.