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?