Teacher (for Edward Francisco)

Basics elude me now,
     as I sit in a field full of vacant
     desks, waiting
     for poetry to bloom.
You used to stand there,
     your hands on the podium,
     crackling
     with electricity.
A red-hot weather vane,
     I was struck by the lightning
     of your words,
     of your speaking voice,
     softly Southern and ever-like
     Sunshine.
Bloom again, it will, I think,
     that pink poetry, deep in where
     my voice
     speaks my words
     in ways you have taught me.

Bloomed this past Thanksgiving Thursday,
     a ritual I hate for many reasons.
I stirred mashed potatoes into
     pasty soup,
     Grandmother fussing,
“You’re mother worked so hard to make that
for you. Don’t be so disrespectful.”

     I LAUGHED.

You stood there, grinning,
     reminding me Southerners love
     their dysfunction, and they keep
     their secrets hidden
     well.
I know she doesn’t care about
     tater-coated fingers but that her
     dead husband liked
     sweet young things,
          not her.
I stare through the window glass,
     choking down Death with some
     gravy and corn, and I smile
     at the me I see there.

Faceless, I found you, asked you
     for identity, searching for
     something
     your face showed me and
     Could you help me?
Paper and pencils and rhythms
     and meter, you gave me the tools
     to turn language into
     Dancer,
     molding identity,
Buried away,          until now,
     where I sit
     waiting
     alone
     in absence of
     teacher and
     mourning the losses,
     hating the empty chairs, hating the
     silent air, breaking my heart
     over
     until,
     once again,
     your voice I hear.