At Eleven

At Eleven


Maybe I was a blank page
sitting in the classroom.
It was fourth period the one
after science in sixth grade.
I was new at the school and quiet
moved from another state.
Time to start again.
A teacher stood in front
reading Dickenson and frost
as I savored the lines.
I sat with hands on my desk—
the words took on a new life.
I looked around to see
all of us sitting as we should.
We’d been still most of the day.
The teacher said, write. Put pen
to paper. I paused and listened
to words in my head.
From where they came
I didn’t know, but I figured
They were mine.
I bent over the desk and wrote
A poem. My poem. She said one
but the first asked for another.
I held each page up
to the light and said to myself
this is good. I took a deep breath—
they were a part of me.
The teacher gathered our poems
and the words read sang
as she glanced at me.
I was a story waiting to be told.

appreciationchildhoodpoetryteachernarrative

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