teachers....sometimes we must simply protect...

“There are rubber bands on the bed waiting.”

A timid look up,
that jumps back down,
to the safety of his feet.
I place a hand on a frail shoulder.
Bending to his height,
I try to lift his chin,
which flinches in resistance.

“Ben, sweetie, can you look at me?”

His eyes lift only, and
his chin presses on my hand
in a wish to remain shielded by
playing dumb and blind.

“Ben, can you answer my question?”

“There are rubber bands on the bed.”
The voice is flat and impatient.
His shoulders rise with a heavy sigh.
I do not want to make sense
of his sincerity.

I all but touch the odd welt on his cheek
And finger his hairline, moving
yellow stands drifting on his brow.
He wants very much to be free
of my look – my touch.

“Do these itch, Ben?”
Just a shake of the head side to side.

“Honey, do you have more red marks on you?
His head lifts, and
like a stab to my heart,
I see the eyes of innocence
rimmed in unmeasured sorrow, and
tears being damned by fear.
If I would let go of his shoulder, he’d run.

But I don’t let go.
“He gets mad if I bite my nails.
If I bite my nails,
the rubber bands are waiting for me.”

Ben, doesn’t cry.
His lips don’t tremble.
“Does your father shoot them at you?”

Looking at me, somewhere
far away from childhood,
“No, he just snaps them at me.
Can I go to recess?”

My shoulder’s heave.
My lips tremble.
My hand shakes.
“Yes, Ben. Go play.”

God . . . please . . .
please, let him play.


jeanne rene 7/03