Miss Shay, a Remembrance, a degree of Retribution and Requiem

teacher! O, teacher!

the run in your stocking

looks like a rayon roadway

running parallel to the seam

leading downward to the heel, then

over to the five peninsulas of your toes

then backward and upward to who-knows-where.

the red, red lipstick you’ve applied

this morning is running amuck

across the top plates of your teeth

which clack to the bottoms when you speak.

It’s a tactile sound which I look forward to listening to.

chalk dust smears your dress, and

powders your face like 18th century

French aristocracy, and I can’t understand

what you’ve scribbled across the blackboard,–– but

the tips of the chalk tapping the surface

is another sound which intrigues me.–– listen.

you're wearing sensible shoes; a worn black

leather, heavy-looking, and the kid stationed

at the open door hears you coming.

you have kids, and the kids have a big dog

as the orderly exhibition of your desktop presents them.

your husband has departed for parts unknown

without the saving grace of being killed in Korea,

and the chain around your neck is clinging to the earbuds

of your eyeglasses, holding them tenderly to your breast

like the polished arms of marbled Mary (Batjacob) mourning

the head of descended Jesus, and how forlorn she seems,

like you, Miss Shay.

but perhaps I digress from the true nature my recollections,

and it's not within the realm of possibility that you'd be living today,

so what I mean to say is, I guess–– rest in peace.