THE SCULPTRESS

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mrs. Collins stood~
feet planted and arms crossed,  
ruling the rows of wooden desks  
with a yardstick’s sharp tap-tap. 
 
Her eyes were stern as a rock,
her voice a blade,   
trimming the frayed edges 
of our attention.  

Her hands—knuckles broad, 
could silence a room 
with one raised palm,  
or mend a skinned knee 
with the same precision.  

We feared her, yes.  
but when she bent beside my desk,  
her starched blouse 
whispering of starch and lavender,  
with pleading eyes I pointed to my 
7 written backwards~
She did not say, You wrote it wrong.
Rather, she said Let's try again,
gently holding my fingers 
as together we rewrote the 7  

At recess, she watched us 
like a mother hawk  
with a nest full of awkward chicks.  
When Bob cried over a lost marble,  
she knelt in the gravel with him  
sifting through the rocks until she found it~  
not his, but close enough.  

Years later I stand
in my own classroom,  
mirroring her stance:  
feet planted, arms crossed,  
waiting for the rustle 
of fidgety bodies to still
 
I hear her when I say, 
Look at me when I’m speaking,  
feel her in the way I smooth 
a crumpled worksheet  
before handing it back.  

While grading papers under a dim lamp,  
I press my fingers to my temples~  
her exact gesture  
and wonder if she knew  
she was sculpting more than cursive.

You may read the accompanying memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_attic_the_report_cards_and_mrs_collins_13600

12th gradeschoolteacherfree verse

♡Like0

Poem

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.