I focused first on the voice of the young boy in Peter’s poem which took me back to my own elementary school and ultimately to a memory of my dad. We lived in a community of faculty families near the college and distant from the town. This separation created a bit of a power struggle between the nuns who taught at the parochial school and my father who taught at the college. Here’s my draft:
College Prof vs. Parochial School, Grade 4
Sister Arnoldine lent me her book for a science project
said keep it as long as you like
–the mechanics of an auger’s spiral had cast a spell on me–
but when I got off the school bus the next morning
empty-handed
she said in a voice cold as stone
I want my book you must go back
she thrust upon me Debbie’s bike with the missing pedal
which I cranked in a fever through town and neighborhoods
to the bare blacktop of the county road
beyond the college to cornfields then gravel pit
closing the distance to the woods and home
maybe half mile before the trees
broad nose of a Buick approached–my dad
leaned out his window to hear my tale of woe
–flushed cheeks a smear of tears–
take your time listen to the birds he said
then continued to classrom and laboratory
end of school day book and bike
restored to their rightful owners
I cleaned the blackboard clapped erasers
didn’t falter when Dad walked in
spoke to the sister his low tones icy as needles
don’t you know she could have been dehydrated?
shame of the morning lifted like a cloud of chalk dust
I had to sit with this poem a while to come up with the last line, the emotional truth of my experience. I was amazed at how clearly I could remember my father’s words.