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By Root 446 0

rolls in. Tell Shelquan to get down from the air conditioner. He is singing, “This is why I’m hot,” with sunglasses he stole from Crystal, whose best friend Kiara has carved the word HATE in her arm. Remind Crystal and her girl Kiara that a woman should never mark her body with a word meant to destroy. Yell at them loudly and when Crystal’s nana shows up at the school, tell her anyway, even though she does not speak English and Crystal might not translate. She might. Tell Yaneira that she is a hot skillet when she writes, and not a “retard,” which is what Eduardo calls her under his breath. A fire woman. Really. And when Fatumata stops you in the street in front of the McDonald’s to say good morning, tell her she is late again, but yes, good morning. And tell her to get out of 339, or ask her to help you make it better. You know she can. Listen to Racheal’s poem over and over again. She needs it when Angel, who you cannot believe has turned on you, makes fun of the lilt in her voice, stare him down with your witchy eyes. Tell him, teach him how to say, “I will look at you Racheal and I will see you,” 1,000 times over. Racheal, where Trinidad and Guyana meet. Tell her the truth, that you never knew where she was from until you asked, and when you finally asked it was way later than you wanted. Put the principal in class with all the run-down teachers, no pencils, paperless notebooks. Don’t give him books because you know he is lazy. Call him lazy. Because he is. Make him walk in and out of the metal detectors, saying, “Next school year I will do better, and serve you better.” Make him mean it. Show up. Pencils and papers at the ready.

At the Café

PATRICIA KIRKPATRICK

after Adelia Prado

I must look like I’m confident,

white cup for tea on the table before me,

my son in his indigo bunting,

asleep in the stroller.

When I take out my pen

I must look like a woman

who knows what her work is

while citron and currant

bake in ovens behind me.

Newspaper, lily—

I read in the book that poetry is about the divine.

God came to the window while I was in labor.

Tenderness, tenderness!

I have never forgotten that

sparrow among the clay tiles.

Who knows my name knows I mash

oatmeal, change diapers,

want truly to enter divinity.

God knows it too, knows that

wherever I go now I leave out

some part of me.

I watch my son’s face like a clock;

he is the time I have.

If I choose this window, this black-and-white notebook,

I must appear to be what I am:

a woman who has chosen a table

between her sleeping child

and the beginning of everything.

Worked Late on a Tuesday Night

DEBORAH GARRISON

Again.

Midtown is blasted out and silent,

drained of the crowd and its doggy day.

I trample the scraps of deli lunches

some ate outdoors as they stared dumbly

or hooted at us career girls—the haggard

beauties, the vivid can-dos, open raincoats aflap

in the March wind as we crossed to and fro

in front of the Public Library.

Never thought you’d be one of them,

did you, little lady?

Little Miss Phi Beta Kappa,

with your closetful of pleated

skirts, twenty-nine till death do us

part! Don’t you see?

The good schoolgirl turns thirty,

forty, singing the song of time management

all day long, lugging the briefcase

home. So at 10:00 PM

you’re standing here

with your hand in the air,

cold but too stubborn to reach

into your pocket for a glove, cursing

the freezing rain as though it were

your difficulty. It’s pathetic,

and nobody’s fault but

your own. Now

the tears,

down into the collar.

Cabs, cabs, but none for hire.

I haven’t had dinner; I’m not half

of what I meant to be.

Among other things, the mother

of three. Too tired, tonight,

to seduce the father.

The Age of Great Vocations

ALANE ROLLINGS

You’ve seen the skirts go up and down

In bread lines, soup lines, cheese lines, shanty towns.

No one can say you aren’t seeking work.

The answers come by mail at noon: No interview.

The best companies never respond; you respect them.

Some days, you don’t bother to open the letters,