was what she could afford
the nights he came after us
with a knife. I'd grab my books,
already dreading the next day's
explanations of homework undone
-- I ran out of paper -- the lies
I'd invent standing in front of
the nuns in the clothes I'd lain in
full-bladdered all night, a flimsy
chair-braced door between us
and the hallway's impersonal riot.
Years later, then, in the next
city, standing before my first class,
I scanned the rows of faces,
their cumulative skill in the
brilliant adolescent dances
of self-preservation, of hiding.
New teacher, looking young, seeming
gullible, I know, I let them
give me any excuse and took it.
I was watching them all
for the dark-circled eyes,
yesterday's crumpled costume, the marks
-- the sorrowful coloring of marks --
the cuticles flaming and torn.
I made of myself each day a chink
a few might pass through unscathed.
Linda McCarriston, Eva-Mary (Triquarterly Books/Northwestern University Press, 1991)
No comments:
Post a Comment