My Honduran student sketches cubes
on his notebook paper while listening
to me explain prefixes that mean not:
unable, injustice, immature, illegal.
His cubes evolve into dice and he refuses
to look up, but seems to be listening.
In his journal, he writes about graffiti,
about his little sister, his mom.
Spider webs with spiders dangling adorn
the corners of his homework. I’m instructed
to report all gang symbols—and his clothes
are the suspect colors, so I find myself
watching, wondering when a spider
is just a spider, counting the numbers
on his dice, questioning all art.
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Such a surprise, the turn in the poem! And all those words with "not" prefixes - you chose just the right ones.
ReplyDeleteYour poems go well with breakfast. :)