She makes it through history before her water breaks
in science, is refused a pass, so she runs
to the girls' room with the teacher chasing,
calling for security.
Giving birth in a corridor, she can't be moved,
so they hold the bell to keep the hallway traffic
from grid-locking around her.
There are fights that want to break out
that will have to wait, and drills
and quizzes and experiments with fire,
and the rolling tongues of thirty odd languages.
The pressure of blood surges through arteries
as the load listens to gravity, drops
from the girl's belly.
She lies on the floor while a tribe of administrators
holds her hand, braces her head, catches the crown
of this new child that they must take in,
who has shown up crying, unregistered, and without ID.
...School by Peter Murphy, Atlantic City
This has always been a poem I could relate to, especially now that I am part of the "tribe." Glad to see that the public schools can be looked at as a place where life begins, though. Especially during these tough times.
Keep reading and writing,
Maureen
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