Teacher

She opened her home to fauns of us 

mussed by harsher families who missed 

the thoughts we spoke to her when she asked. 

Asked often and would ask again. We tried

to come out from under blankets of shame. 

She welcomed versus trying to smother 

some fear that we might not conform or fit. 

We could not admit our mothers were trapped. 

And our fathers were stuck kow-towing to 

those in unearned authority while calling

themselves independent. She spoke plainly 

Irish- Americanly, inviting 

the threat of facts revealing what was broken 

or burning up. She showed truth was worth 

the razor wire of resistance. She was 

imperfect with eloquence, humility,

and laughter. Missed zilch. Loved me loved my foibles. 

I told myself perfection might be this 

contagious nervous breakdown seeking to 

design a life to resemble dreamed 

signatures hewn from scratch on Big Chief tablets 

pulped with tooth. She left us winter we could search 

and replace with evenings in her living room 

where she perfumed what she performed. 

None of our mothers were like this. Our teacher 

blocked new scenes beside the figurative 

baptismal font of personality. 

Did her own pure mother whom she sainted proud.