poetry CHALK MARK by Liz Green Limp swings, plastic seats on chains outside the Slavic Christian Church I drove past every afternoon, exhausted. Never any children in them, and I wondered where they were. My ignorance about the world felt vast:
not good, because at the time, I was a teacher of people five years younger than me, and bought horrible green and blue “teacher pants” that emphasized un-winningly my ass and the chalk mark I got on it from leaning against the board, as if backed into
an alley. One kid publicly accused me of hating him because he was gay, which I hadn’t known, only that he spent the class period eating loudly from a bag of oniony sandwich, or head down on the desk. When I’d called him into my office I let him talk first and he
said, We don’t respect you, speaking for himself and the whole class. As he makes his way into the world, I wonder if he ever thinks of me and that fall in chicken- processing-plant-scented Harrisonburg and all I can hope is to have been erased,
to not have stuck as the snow and ice did on the mountain road I took at sunrise and sundown every day, to and fro, to teach knowing nothing of myself; seeing with alarm the blinking “fog warning” sign between the wipers bumping back and forth—it was a fall, a spring
of storms and fog and horses sheltering under a fragment of barn near the little cabin on Wild Turkey Lane I shared with my fiancé, my ticket out of Virginia and teaching, though we would never be happier than we were that spring before our wedding.
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