I come again to the task of grading their final papers.
My eye looks for errors and is surprised to find
the occasional really nice observation, the jewel
in what is otherwise such a disappointing read.
This is how I know I have lost touch with what it means
to be a teacher.  Instead, I have become a judge,
with my critical thoughts, my evaluation of each case,
each miserable attempt to satisfy the terms
of the assignment.

In fact, a student's observation about the drowning
of Ophelia as it compares to the speaker
in Adrienne Rich's "Diving into the Wreck"
is exactly the kind of thinking I advised,
but I find it weak.  Of course I do,
here with my metaphorical red pen,
now a mouse and pointer, highlighting
all of the absurd grammar and punctuation
mistakes, the lack of support for points.
"Where's the evidence for this claim?" I write.

Where's the evidence, at the end of the semester,
here in my room, figuring out what grade
is appropriate, that I did everything I could
to make the literature come alive for students
who are floundering like Ophelia in the water,
their heavy mental garments weighing them down,
trapping them until they know they are drowning
and I stand by the water describing how messy
their hair is.