I only chance upon her at the end
though chance is the wrong word,
it was not chance at all (it
never is)
when she was old, and like a mighty river
still moving outward, surely, from its source
flowing in a deep familiar bed
worn in the hardest rock by year of trial
sometimes be calmed, and sometimes flashed with storm
possessed of awesome strength and majesty
that by its nature nourishes and sustains
all those upon its banks.
The classroom was her forum and her stage
where often, with exuberant display
(proceeding from the love we sometimes missed)
she’d sting and challenge till a well-placed shot came home
and then, provoked, attentive now,
our minds became alive.
Quite daily would she wrestle down
our pride
while elsewhere, so we’d hear,
do battle with the furies we enraged.
She helped us know the leprechauns were real,
as surely as she showed us Dante’s fire.
She took one class to read a page of Shakespeare
and unearthed more for us, in that one page
than some of us had found in all the play
But more than that, the second page was ours.
In her a temper fired a matchless wit.
She never, with a fierceness quite dramatic,
would tolerate an effort we could better.
She scolded, prodded and insulted us
rejoicing in a spirited response
and freely showed us for the fools we were
But never did she test what was not there—
that was the mark that made the rest so true.
We were afraid of her.
We used to say she’s screw us to the wall
if we were not prepared. She would have laughed
to hear us talk, and screw us there again.
For her we did things quite extraordinary
or so we judged. She’d make us say a line
it seemed 500times, pronounce it lacking
and bid us try again. She’d not let up
until she had us mad enough to do it
the way we should have first, but for our fears
I was a King and I still know my lines.
The spectacle we made would startle others
but we, for all her storming, saw her clearer
than any there those she pushed the hardest felt in ourselves reponseth was part awe,
part irritation, most of all respect
it was a validation to be so clearly seen.
Her forum has been silent now for years
though others, following, have carried on;
the river surely has not really gone
for where indeed could such a river go—
but undeniably has shifted course to leave behind its long, deep empty bed
indelibly
undeniably graven on our hearts.
After I left, stretched, often challenged
surely deeply changed—but hardly ready.
I knew enough to go back soon to see her
and she, retired now, the end in sight,
received me warmly, eager form my news
with the great grace she wore so carelessly.
Across wide gulfs we opened to each other for one last time.
She knew exactly what she was about—
I had no clue.
“What are you doing with yourself?” I asked—
“Is there a book you’re working on,
now that you have the time?”
She looked at me and smiled. For one brief moment
I saw, as with her eyes, how far away her focus was;
and knew at once that it had always been.
“There is no book,” she said. “I’m working on my soul.”
Ancilla Dōminī: handmaiden of the Lord.
She chose it for her name; she willed it for her life—
She lived her answer pure and simple:
yes!
Karenblenz
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