By Roxanne Cardona
1.
I admired his penmanship, the red snap
on tie. His shirt, the very white of it,
the beating heart of his elocution.
Joe folded creases of himself
into his seat, curled his "j" s like a nacre
shell, his sharp pencils poked holes into
lined paper. The broken light of him wrapped
into his Batman backpack. I gold starred all
his efforts in my second-grade classroom.
2.
All five feet nine of him stands above
my desk, in the end light of today. Ten years
between second grade and this moment.
His hair curls in wet rings. Joe’s eyes falling
heavy into their lids, the very glint of them,
unnatural as me in this empty school.
Held in the surprise of him.
He's helloing me. And, You look so good-ing me.
His steps neat and clean walk themselves out.
3.
The five o'clock air turns around my car,
its dark. Drive me home pretty teacher?
But it's not the ride he wants. And it's No,
no, no, as we slow dance around the car.
A yank and a click get me in. Joe pulls,
pulls the passenger side door. I twist my key,
rip open the engine. He beats his fists, steeled,
sharp into the locked door. My wheels
race to put distance and time between us.
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