I Gave A Student A Poem

At lunch a student stopped me to ask:

Why do we sleep?

“So our daemons can tidy our mind-maps.”

And from whence dreams?

I told him of the Sandman,

And pixies mixing elixirs of reflection.

Thank you, Ms. W.

That sounds true.

At the door of the cafeteria two of my students stood,

Ready to erupt into more should I pause,

And become a Cerberus of helpful good.

I handed one the psychology textbook.

The other, just as casually, a poem to hold.

Careful, don’t crush it, let it breath.

Where are you going?

To blow that wonderful bubble, the moon;

I promise to be back soon.

Damn,

Ms. W,

That was like slam.

When I returned it was just as I’d hoped.

The poem had taken root.

He could not give it back.

The other sat on the psych book;

The tendrils of the poem were playing with his hands.

Next year I will teach poetry.

Next year I will teach less-traveled roads,

Next year I will teach imaginary gardens with real toads.
Next year near Jerusalem.

P.S. Friday I stood in front of my class, introducing abnormal psychology, and seguewayed into an involuntary digression on "The Yellow Wallpaper." The students wouldn't let it go-- "are you bringing it in? Can we read it?" I'd forgotten the incredible infectiousness of the leseglad. This week we start psychology through literature. Next year, life through literature.