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Teaching You

May 10, 2013

Sometimes,
I watch the boys watching you.
They sit next to you,
uninvited.
They lean over you,
helping with your math,
your reading,
though you have not asked for help.
Though you understand math just fine,
and when you read out loud,
you do so with voice unfaltering.
You keep your head bowed,
your lips tightly pursed.
When I ask you
if you understand,
you stare at me with round, darting eyes,
like a small beetle,
its boulder
pried loose from the ground,
trapped in sudden sunlight.
Sometimes, I want to rip that boulder up from the dirt by its roots.
I want to hurl it at the sky
and watch it crack,
watch the blue leak out
of stone and sky,
coating the earth
with dust and ozone.
Sometimes,
before you dart away,
you offer a word,
or two,
glowing, blue words
with the cut edges
and sky-soaked shimmer
of poetry.
They tell me you never speak.
But this I know:
when you do,
diamonds.

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