The nose slopes at the tip with betrayal,
brown hair too short for her chubby face.
Staccato cadence in her voice accents
recitation of a poem I don't remember.
Steadfast, self-assured Ms. Langford stares at us
in the first row. Suspicious glances from
her book without pause, she continues reading
with conviction. Her pacing unbroken and not soft
spoken, her question hangs in the air like a dare.
Quietly imprisoned in my desk transfixed
by my ninth grade teacher with no make-up.
Scrubbed clean with purpose no nonsense
Ms. Langford unmoved by fashion and style,
comfortable in her pale skin, light blue dress
and outdated pumps. What poise for an ex-nun!
Was it a lover who led her escape from the convent?
Not Ms. Langford. She is a rebel nonconformist
unyielding woman dedicated to something
I don't understand. Longfellow, Whitman,
and Shakespeare brought her here to a school
of adolescents. Words from dead poets
keep her warm at night.
Share This Poem