Write about walking into the building

as a new teacher. Write yourself hopeful.

Write a row of empty desks. Write the face

of a student you’ve almost forgotten;

he’s worn a Derek Jeter jersey all year.

Do not conjecture about the adults

he goes home to, or the place he calls home. 

Write about how he came to you for help

each October morning his sophomore year.

Write about teaching Othello to him;

write Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, 

rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven. 

Write about reading his obituary

five years after he graduated. Write

a poem containing the words “common”

“core,” “differentiate,” and “overdose.”

Write the names of the ones you will never

forget: “Jenna,” “Tiberious,” “Heaven,”

“Megan,” “Tanya,” “Kingsley” “Ashley,” “David.”

Write Mari with “Nobody’s Baby” tattooed

in cursive on her neck, spitting sixteen bars

in the backrow, as little white Mike beatboxed

“Candy Shop” and the whole class exploded.

Write about Zuly and Nely, sisters

from Guatemala, upon whom a thousand

strange new English words rained down on like hail

each period, and who wrote the story

of their long journey on la bestia

through Mexico, for you, in handwriting

made heavy by the aquís and ayers

ached in their knuckles, hidden by their smiles.

Write an ode to loose-leaf. Write elegies

on the nub nose of a pink eraser.

Carve your devotion from a no. 2

pencil. Write the uncounted hours you spent

fretting about the ones who cursed you out

for keeping order, who slammed classroom doors,

who screamed “you are not my father,” whose pain

unraveled and broke you, whose pain you knew.

Write how all this added up to a life.  

 

i know we exist because of what we make. my dad works at a steel mill. he worked at a steel mill my whole life. at the party, the liberal white woman tells me she voted for hillary & wishes bernie won the nomination. i stare in the mirror if i get too lonely. thirsty to see myself i once walked into the lake until i almost drowned. the white woman at the party who might be liberal but might have voted for trump smiles when she tells me how lucky i am. how many automotive components do you think my dad has made. you might drive a car that goes and stops because of something my dad makes. when i watch the news i hear my name, but never see my face. every other commercial is for taco bell. all my people fold into a $2 crunchwrap supreme. the white woman means lucky to be here and not mexico. my dad sings por tu maldito amor & i’m sure he sings to america. y yo caí en tu trampa ilusionado. the white woman at the party who may or may not have voted for trump tells me she doesn't meet too many mexicans in this part of new york city. my mouth makes an oh, but i don't make a sound. a waiter pushes his brown self through the kitchen door carrying hors d’oeuvres. a song escapes through the swinging door. selena sings pero ay como me duele & the good white woman waits for me to thank her.