from NER 41.1 (2020)
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We knew she’d loved
been loved by how she
taught Shakespeare,
the anguish of regret
staining her voice
when Henry turns his
back on Falstaff, denies
a love untidy. She saw
in us these untidinesses,
loved us for them.
That’s not too strong a
word, is it, for how a teacher
tends the statuaries she
places in students’ minds?
Thick is the green
there with longing and
fury, little pebbled
by regret or patience. What
tenderness it takes to
plant, such a lot
of raking, weeding, a
respect for the ground
itself, and yet she
showed us a love that
didn’t ravage equally
was not love,
it could make you weep
before a room of teenagers,
caged in self-mockery. She dared
us to feel, even for her. How old
she seemed, scarves in
springtime, pilgrimages to
Ravello in summer, eyes misty
every fall by the spectacle of
our unzippering before her
beloved bard, etched onto
our skins now
a passionate kiss.