Teresa Blackmon

Teresa Blackmon is a retired English teacher and librarian. She lives on the family farm in eastern North Carolina with her dogs Trouble and Buddy. She enjoys reading, knitting and attending NCSU athletic events. She received her MA in English from NCSU and her MLS from NCCU.

Lessons

So fragile she was there in her desk,

writhing with loss and uncertainty

in a life as tangled as Medusa’s locks—

the little girl who was a shadow of pain,

a whisper longing for a careful voice,

assigned to me in that year of knowing.

Her eyes were the color of sad,

despair so deep no ink could stain the page

no sentence with words enough to calm,

and I as helpless as a deaf messenger tried to send

her through the pages of poets and wise ones.

She listened to the calling of poetry and

understood that it was language that would

give her solace. The journals she kept

held her together, gave the fear a place to live

and breathe until it could escape.

I read and watched the breakaway, so proud.

Later, she made learning her map, her sustenance.

Nourished by the breadcrumbs of sages

and the quests of other wanderers,

she took off—flew brave journeys,

shaping her sky in flight as certain

as breath exhaled after long delay.

Now she finds me pushing questions around,

searching all alone in a crowded world,

like old homeless women in the city

who move their lives in abandoned grocery carts

from stoop to stoop to find a temporary home,

a place to watch and listen, a place to hide.

I have become her student, diligent in my doubt,

but certain that there are answers,

sure that somewhere in the back of the Book,

in red ink and tiny little print, they are there.

It is her story I read now, her life the plot I study,

just before all tests my life must pass.

I am her empty child, growing restless

in the uncomfortable

desk of age and despair.

Teaching the Great Gatsby

Green stone, like cheap beads,

skips the water, tarnishing,

color of cat eyes.