The Pyre

Some receive it as a gift, like a child—               wrapped in festive tissue paper,               encased in sturdy (yet velvety) bows,               delivered in public, out in the open, for all to see. Others toy with it as a string, like a kitten—               dangling from above by an unseen hand,               dancing from side to side (albeit erratically),  enticing the playfulness from within, out, for all to see. I walk behind it as an enigma, like a disciple—               examining its angles and edges from afar,        ...

This poem is for your bones, those cramped calcified frames waiting to unfurl. This poem is for your words unspoken, those we repent for not having heard, those we wish we could still hear. This poem is for the kaleidoscope of your eyes, those revolving hues of browns and greens and blues, those nearsighted retinas oblivious to the blurred distance, those irises slamming down the windows to the light. This poem is also for me.

When I was very young               and oh so dumb                              (like a couple of months ago) I felt attraction               based on physicality                              (fatally so I might add) Now I am charmed                       by a sense personal responsibility                                       (cheers to that)

i will my form into the cardboard cube and feel the constriction in my lungs as the shrink wrap seals me in the thud of my own weight resists the conveyor belt shaking my organs until I lose my mass and float then the vertigo of transport lulls me into unconsciousness until dozens of rough hands pitch me about and arrange me for display oblivion takes over and once again the darkness awaits the disturbance of another set of rough hands on my fresh smooth exterior cluttered with refrains of corporate fingerprints the beep that peppers such commercial haggle assesses the merit of my varying black lines until the reluctant rough hands tender paper currency and remain outstretched for the leftover pennies

I no longer delight in the delusion of being right.  The years pile up, yielding wisdom—the kind that I feel deep in my belly. The kind that pries the masks off of all of those faces. When I was young, I believed in absurd things: the things that deep-belly wisdom debunk. The trick is to juggle the hostile aftertaste of deep-belly wisdom with the honeyed piquancy of open-mouthed laughter without dropping all that is you. I look at the lines staring back at me in the mirror and I open my mouth and I force the laughter up like bile until it becomes real. Then, my laughter transforms into a growl, a guttural grunt that renders the lines staring back at me in the mirror savagely beautiful.  Finally, I stop tripping over the heap of years and faceless masks: I just live open mouthed.

It’s silly really . . . the terror, I mean. Such a benign sight: the grayness of the tile, the starkness of the bathtub, the clarity of the water, lapping over the edge, soaking the orange fibers of the mat. My toes drown and my panicked feet lead me away and back and my tense arms heave the towels to the floor and my unnerved eyes shut out all sight. The more I try, the less it slows: I become the little Dutch boy’s finger in the dam, submerged in water as the pressure builds and then bursts. The silly terror hangs on even after my eyes open.

There’s an alarming trend in public education. Is it the dismal prospective of today’s students? Nope. Kids are kids. While generational differences exist, my fifteen years of teaching have proven that some things just never change: gastrointestinal noises will always be hilarious to freshmen boys. Is it the oppressing arm of the federal government slapping down local control? Don’t sound the alarm bells on this one yet. It’s true that Mr. Duncan’s insistence that teacher evaluation include student performance data is simplistic and misguided, at least the US Department of Education is beginning to show signs that they understand student performance is more complicated than test scores (despite a long history that has already proven this fact). Unfortunately, the trend of which I am speaking slaps me in the face every day as I enter the school at which I’ve taught for twelve years, Olathe Northwest High . For the first time in my memory, we are approaching the end of th...