I save my poetry unit for April, when everybody’s tired and has no more fucks to give. After Heart of Darkness and Macbeth; after Black Boy and Jane Eyre and the sticky-thick short stories of Katherine Anne Porter. Because when the kids are just OVER reading and writing; over it over it over it; that’s when the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars. In the letting go, they learn. Despite themselves. And, if I can go limp enough, I write. Some couplets from today:
i wanted to fuck her poems
instead, i found her.
“i’m the villain, baby,” you said, and i swooned
but you stole that quote from “girl, interrupted.”
root vegetables, dark beer
the taste of you
you were a long list of ingredients
but no recipe
she was like my first hit of ecstasy;
i kept trying to repeat the experience, and sometimes cliches are all we have.
you left, and i was like a liquid
trying to do a solid’s job
she pulled a stake out of the train tracks and handed it to me
i was the one who crashed
i’m making a list of things that won’t get done today
and you are nowhere on it
In other news, today I subbed for the Health teacher, and I learned from the textbook that marijuana is addictive and sexual abstinence until marriage is the only acceptable choice. Dang. For so many years, I got those things confused!