My first day teaching, a student

vomited down the front of his shirt,

then fell from his seat to the floor.

He did not move, and I thought

what if he were dead on my first day?

But as I leaned down thinking

what needed to be done for a dead student -

close his eyes or repeat the words

Christ spoke over Lazarus - he smiled.

He wore mascara and watched me

from beneath the black net of his eyes,

as I wiped his mouth and held his head,

scent of whiskey and bad breath

rising into my face.

Last night, preparing my lesson plans,

did I write: tomorrow we will enter Judea?

No! I have never believed in miracles.

I wanted to begin with the rational,

the Golden Age of Greece.

Instead, I wind up here, of all places

in the wild country of faith, among the lame,

the blind, cradling a babe in black swaddling,

planning, but not quite, his resurrection?