after I make the test, write the questions,
fill in the correct answers on
my answer key,
I gloat.
if you are the student
who takes my tests and fills in my answers,
the ones you think I want to hear,
and if you could see me when I make them,
when I carefully push number one, parentheses,
enter--the way my eyes narrow and my feet tap impatiently,
while I wait for quiz-like perfection,
you'd think I'm evil.
that my sole purpose in this life,
the one in which I'm confined to an office and a desk,
where I burrow underneath the cave, using piles of student essays
as a teacher appropriate pillow,
is to prove you wrong and say
you'll never be any good.
your work is just not A material.
you pass. you fail.
you're wrong.
I'm right.
what he does not know
(how could he)
that I hate myself when she misunderstands
(which she will)
when you dribble insults,
like stings, little by little,
class by class
until finally my pretty smile face
forms into a scowl.
I tell him to leave.
He sits in his desk,
Big Buddha of such suffering.
Everyone stares at him. at me.
someone says,
"I thought class was supposed to be fun."
but I never issued a lie
or try to imagine they will see me as
ally, comrade, equal one.
instead I am expected to welcome all
******* errors and personalities,
even the ones that sting,
and keep the pageant smile stretched until
my skin rips off my face, and
I'm finally seen.
