I never met Mister Teacher

          only the man who brought

          the snapped-back pencil

          and G.E.D practice sheets

          on a cafeteria tray,

          grudge lines of gravy

          smudging the passage

          about a boy

          whose dirt-stained palms

          sprouted psalms of lilac

          long after he thought he had

          nothing left to offer.

 

I never met Mister Teacher

          but I drew my name in the margins

          of every page in flowering font

          so that he might know of me.

          And on the palms of my hands

          so that if I ever bore a fist

          I would be Kalief no longer.

          This I named the fox,

          Kalief. And the country

          to the west, Kalief.

          Breath is to sky as touch is to—

                    Kalief

          I pencil in, tracing the grooves

          between my fingers as though

          falling in love with my body

          for the very first time.

 

I never met Mister Teacher

          and for this I stood in the center

          of my cell, facing the concrete door

          and its narrow slit. Size of my throat.

          I waved my homework

          back and forth for days

          and called out softly for Mister

Teacher.

          He never came.

          I must’ve looked like a vagrant

          shaking my cardboard sign:

          Even a smile would help,

          Travelling alone, living on Faith.

          I remained in that spot long after

          the due date passed,

          wiped my nose bleed

          on the answer sheet as winter

          fell the temperature.

          When the tired light cut through

          the bars of the cell, I waved

          to the shadows and they were

          the only ones who ever waved back.

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