Trying to teach writing, stepping
over back packs, legs, the long bodies
of teens who don’t fit in
hard, metal chairs, I notice all over
the classroom—shadows of stories:
a note on the board from Sarah who, refuses
to acknowledge the ridiculous Hallmark
catastrophe called Valentine’s Day;
below it, all caps: 3 DAYS TIL VACATION!
Small cartoons frame the board’s edge, little men
shouting in capes, Down with Big Brother!
I’m bending over Clara’s desk—paper
blank, head down, hair in a tough pony-tail,
hoops swinging—and ask, what can you write
about with lots of details?
I’m trying to write about my mom.
What about your mom? she’s in prison.
I sat beside her, sensing now, we were both
in trouble, both bound to enter, remain
wherever the words might take us.
What’s it like there? not so bad.
There’s plants and chairs.
Are there guards?
Does your mother wear a uniform?
yeah. yeah, it’s gray, sort of blue.
Her elbows are on the desk, head between
both hands. Can you think of the smells?
But, leaning in to see her face, I realize
I’ve gone too far for both of us, pushed
too deeply in where now, the details tremble,
mixed with a black mascara—where her story
sits waiting about the day her mother,
shaking and skinny, left again with police,
left her sitting behind on the stoop.
My eyes escape to the pointed script
on the board above Clara’s head,
Andrew Leavitt has finally been
taken by the little men in white coats,
carried off to that far, faraway place
with the soft walls to scream his lungs out.
