Poet Girl
–by Cathy Arellano
I visited her class once a week last year.
She followed the instructions for every exercise
with excitement and enthusiasm,
maybe even a little joy.
(Isn't that what we teachers want?)
She read her work aloud to her classmates,
without the reward of a silly sticker I offer
those students who grimace and writhe.
I am like a doctor after a measles shot:
"There now, there now."
During lunch, she came to write poetry.
She sat waiting patiently, expectantly.
Other students came to eat,
listen to music.
We teachers fiddled with days and times:
Tuesdays after school.
No, Thursdays at lunch.
Okay, Tuesdays and Thursdays at lunch.
This year, she does not come,
during lunch or after school,
and I am not assigned to one of her classes.
This year, I rarely see her
and only in the halls.
Her clear brown eyes,
hidden with blue plastic.
Her punk rock
interpretation of herself
wraps her in black.
I wonder:
Is she writing her poems?
I remember finding my own salvation
in similar quick beats,
ripped jeans and T-shirts
as I walked these same halls
twenty years ago.
It was that and poetry
that saved me.
What do you say to a student
who shares her heart on paper
then glides away
when you forget to schedule,
to open your mind,
to stop being a teacher and just listen?
I organized a reading
in the library a few weeks ago
and she came.
She wanted to read so badly,
she volunteered to speak someone else's words.
It was a poem.
I hope she'll read this poem too.
I'm glad you haven't given up.
Continue to connect
the light in your soul
with a pen
and carve it into paper.
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