N'em

They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid
Money in mattresses
So to sleep on decisions.
Some of their children
Were not their children. Some
Of their parents had no birthdates.
They could sweat a cold out
Of you. They'd awake without
An alarm telling them to.
Even the short ones reached
Certain shelves. Even the skinny
Cooked animals too quick
To get caught. And I don't care
How ugly one of them arrived,
That one got married
To somebody fine. They fed
Families with change and wiped
Their kitchens clean.
Then another century came.
People like me forgot their names.

Jericho Brown, The New Testament (Copper Canyon Press, 2014)

A Teacher's Lament

Don't tell me the cat ate your math sheet,
And your spelling words went down the drain,
And you couldn't decipher your homework,
Because it was soaked in the rain.

Don't tell me you slaved for hours
On the project that's due today,
And you would have had it finished
If your snake hadn't run away.

Don't tell me you lost your eraser,
And your worksheets and pencils, too,
And your papers are stuck together
With a great big glob of glue.

I'm tired of all your excuses;
They really are a terrible bore.
Besides, I forgot my own work,
At home in my study drawer.

Kalli Dakos, If You're Not Here, Please Raise Your Hand  (Simon Schuster Books for Young Readers, 1990)

A Teacher's Contract

Between the teachers and the city
there exists a contract,
full of legal obligations on both sides,
pay steps, duties and responsibilities,
all to be negotiated.
But there is a higher, more important contract,
that requires no lawyers,
no arbitration, no picket lines.
It is a contract given, not stated,
ironclad and universal.
It is written on the smart board,
demonstrated in the halls, surrounding
student desks and classroom walls.
It is a contract automatically renewed each year,
forged in love, witnessed daily.
It is never up for a discussion or vote.
It is unchangeable, immutable.
And in Newtown the contract
remains unbroken in life, in death,
consisting of only two words:
"My kids."

Mel Glenn. This poem appeared in the Metropolitan Dairy feature, Monday, January 14, 2013, The New York Times, page A17.

Sometimes

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave a stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

Author's name omitted at her request.

This Little Piggy Went to Market

is the usual thing to say when you begin
pulling on the toes of a small child,
and I have never had a problem with that.
I could easily picture the pig with his basket
and his trotters kicking up the dust on an imaginary road.

What always stopped me in my tracks was
the middle toe -- this little piggy ate roast beef.
I mean I enjoy a roast beef sandwich
with lettuce and tomato and a dollop of horseradish,
but I cannot see a pig ordering that in a delicatessen.

I am probably being too literal-minded here --
I am even wondering why it is called "horseradish."
I should just go along with the beautiful nonsense
of the nursery, float downstream on its waters.
After all, Little Jack Horner speaks to me deeply.

I don't want to be the one who spoils the children's party
by asking unnecessary questions about Puss in Boots
or, again, the implications of a pig eating beef.

By the way, I am completely down with going
"Wee wee wee" all the way home,
having done that many times and knowing exactly how it feels.

Billy Collins, Ballistics (Random House, 2008)

homage to my hips

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
I've known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

Lucille Clifton, Good Woman (Curtis Brown, Ltd, 1987)

Have We Had Easter Yet?

'Who are you?' asks my mother.
'If you're looking after me
I ought to know your name.'

I show her me when I was small,
A faded photograph.
'That's Bobbins,' she says instantly.

'I wonder where she is, she never comes to see me.'
I go away. To get my mother's lunch.
'How good it looks. Please thank the cook.'

Later I find it in the bin.
'I didn't know who cooked it,
So I had those custard creams.'

She smiles at me with muddled eyes
And says my name,
Then struggles off on shaky legs,

Looks for her stick,
Opens the outside door,
Calls home dead dogs.

Alison Pryde, Have We Had Easter Yet? (Peterloo Poets, 1998)