Untelling

—Lower Greenbrier Elementary, Prater, Virginia, 1970

It is Miss Agnes’s first year, too. 
Every day somebody goofs and calls her “Mom.”
She points to Dick and Jane, far away
and sinless in their pastel, suburban Eden, 
as foreign as the kingdom a clever third brother 
wins through kindness to an enchanted fox.
She wears a big-buttoned blue sweater
and winks encouragement, when I stumble
over the letters chalked on the blackboard.
“M” and “N” are a spindle-legged puzzle.
I write “S” backward, drag the tail of “J” forward.
Not all of her students always have lunch,
so Miss Agnes packs extra to share. 
Once, VISTA brings us hamburgers,
and she stands aside, polite but blushing
when those young strangers see our need.
Miss Agnes has to rise early and build a fire.
There is soot from the stove and coal dust
from the trucks groaning past outside
and oil on the floor to keep the dust quiet.
Miss Agnes can do nothing about that,
she tells our mothers. We leave home clean,
but we play until our stiff, new clothes
are grimed through and soft with washings.