a tower inside the classroom opening the folds of a book
read aloud English words that do not sound gibberish
to teenage ears, filled with hormones and rap
at fourteen, mine were stuffed with soft padded lyrics
a little of Frost's poem and Miss B's voice
that trails in the corridor with a whiff of her
half Arab, half Persian perfume
clack of her heels on the ground, we were into the details
that allowed us to speak perfectly to work for something other
than what we will receive upon leaving the room
vaporized like old detergent
this is how I remember Miss B, a hug on the doorway
that had to give me five more seconds as a child
stuck into what will soon become an adult's world
of trying too hard to get into the same circle
of reading Murakami in plain daylight
but this is how I will always remember Miss B
with stories she left in my lap
with a turquoise brochure at my desk
that reminds me every single day that some rejections
only aim to move us, like a bow to target.
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