Sestina to an English Teacher

I wondered if

you hated words—

those words that you could

say by heart—the ones you save

inside your head for your

gawping students, that define your life.

Your young voice brought old words to life,

age only antique, frailty perceivable only

by sight.  For you these words

Were nature, these forms so often taught that you could

chat in verse, speak in poetry, you could save

these dying words with your

endless life.  I wondered if your

thinning blood resented life,

words mocking your condition—if

you knew we saw you through your words

and your sardonic jokes, could

see your hands shake, could not save

the hair on your head from pallor, save

you from admiring recognition as your

skin faded, white.  That was not your life.

That shadow of your life was only—

is only—the memory of kind words

fixed to a comforting face that could

keep its humour through elegy and tragedy, could

smile and tease and pass on courage, save

our grades and your dignity, your

inspiration, your endless, relentless love of life.

I never could work out if

you hated my words,

the words on tragedy and elegy, words

you praised so much—if you would

think I’d misunderstood if I saved

myself from regret, if I used them to save your

voice, your image, tried to save your life—

if only

words could

save your life.