This desk is the Parthenon.
My fingers pick at splinters and varnish, in a lineup
I am another one shuffled forward, past, to leave my mark
And move on. Archeologically speaking,
You can trace my heart
Through long division <.MM.3, through quadratic equations <.DF.3 and similes, close reading, WWII, the women’s movement, Monet, Xylem and Phloem.
<.SS.3, <.MHG.3, a sense of validation, cave paintings on desks, worksheets, jotters.
I left tiny treasure trail letters to remember which way I’d come,
A collection of museum quality: red Berol; scratched deep blue; crosshatched grey
And sliding black ink, a record of affection.
The Curator says “Such crude proclamations were grown out of”,
And the school-trip child asks “Where did all the love go,
if all the letters and hearts are gone?”
“It didn’t go”, whispered “She only changed, learned to bury them deeper, you see”
I am living in spirals, pressing my love into the fabric of the world.
“She writes poems, and every one is a heart carved into a plastic tree,
a memorial in cyberspace, eternal.
She doodles, chats, complains, acknowledges, dedicates
and chokes up names she can’t help but mention so often;
marks her progress in willing brains.
She doesn’t write in hearts anymore, its true,
Everything she touches is stamped with imprints of his name.”
