It is Tuesday, & My Student Leaves Class
On a small scrap
rectangle, she says,
a friend died
& poetry class is no place
Please.
if you say, Professor, my friend
is bullshit. Can I tell you
Or
the canyon in my chest, the exit,
that’s my friend
the sweet missing.
Look, for real,
I’m in mourning, OK?
Her blood, but not
try shaking a ghost’s pang
the blank until your curious eye bends
folding in on itself, a hunger
It is Tuesday, & my student leaves class
over heroin.
of paper torn to jagged
Sorry,
of an overdose—heroin—
for an outburst.
Stay.
I don’t care
just died, this freewrite
about her?
Excuse me, I’m sure you see
& the hallway behind me—
boaring away, she
Or
it ain’t none of your damn business;
Not her veins, another’s.
her sour. Still,
& claw. Try living under
empty to origami sky. Like night
for familiar notes of light.
It is Tuesday, & my student leaves class
over heroin.
On a small scrap
of paper torn to jagged
rectangle, she says,
Sorry,
a friend died
of an overdose—heroin—
& poetry class is no place
for an outburst.
Please.Stay.
I don’t care
if you say, Professor, my friend
just died, this freewrite
is bullshit. Can I tell you
about her?
Or
Excuse me, I’m sure you see
the canyon in my chest, the exit,
& the hallway behind me—
that’s my friend
boaring away, she
the sweet missing.
Or
Look, for real,
it ain’t none of your damn business;
I’m in mourning, OK?
Not her veins, another’s.
Her blood, but not
her sour. Still,
try shaking a ghost’s pang
& claw. Try living under
the blank until your curious eye bends
empty to origami sky. Like night
folding in on itself, a hunger
for familiar notes of light.
◆
Mitchell L. H. Douglas on Craft
You know that student who is a rock, the one you can count on to show up, contribute to class discussion with genuine enthusiasm, and make the experience better for everyone—professors included? One day, minutes into my intro poetry course, that student needed out of class immediately and passed me a note from the doorway. The news pulling them from their desk was too much to say aloud and it was difficult to accept what they wrote once I took the words in. A friend had just died of a heroin overdose and poetry class, the student said, was no place to process the grief.
If the classroom wasn’t that place, perhaps a poem could be.
Given the complexity of the subject, the contrapuntal presented itself as the poem’s natural body. Typically formatted as side-by-side columns that can be read as three different poems, “It is Tuesday…” offers one column after another as individual sections instead of revealing everything at once. The third poem that normally appears when reading straight across each column is presented last. The effect is a journey toward understanding in three movements: the first gives part of the story with some of the details from the note missing to the reader; the second adds more particulars, bringing the reader closer to the reason behind the student’s exit; and the third reveals a complete and difficult truth. The reader is alerted to the start of each new section by the refrain “It is Tuesday and my student leaves class.” The poem begins with a sense of chaos and the picture of the conflict becomes clearer as we read deeper into the lines.
Ultimately, this poem is mourning and harmony. It offers condolences and says yes, the idea of staying in class after such a tremendous loss is absurd.
