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Back to School: The Writers' Conference
by
Rachael Ikins |
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Back to School: The Writers’ Conference
Rachael Z. Ikins
The skinny professor
looks like a man who’d name his boy
“Henry.” Monday-insubstantial.
Each morning, however,
he acquires more substance,
fills out, more muscled, more
humored. Definition.
Each day he would teach me,
young enough to be my son. I hunger
to learn, but many lashes have scarred
my back since last I sat in a student’s seat.
Most recall college days-- beer, illicit
sex, tokin’ behind the athletic building,
a stampede for grades, for dining hall
food. Not me. I broke down, like a newer model
car with some unexpected defect, say, the accelerator stuck
at 120 mph in the carpet nap. I went home.
Semester dwindled via correspondence.
These days it is hard
for a teacher to find the open place,
to sneak under my cracked carapace
to show me…all I want to know.
I clutch my pride with both hands.
They sweat.
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--Submitted by Rachael Z. Ikins on 2012-08-19.
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