‘Eulogy to the First Ms. Brown’ and Other Poetry by Betsy K. Brown

.

Eulogy to the First Ms. Brown

or a Divine Comedy of Educators

.
To my aunt—the second daughter of three,
And first to leave us just two years ago:
I picture you once sitting on Grandpa’s knee

And asking him, where do our spirits go
When they leave earth? I’m sure he gave a wry
Teacher’s reply to you, and that a show

Of hands shot up with questions, whys on whys,
If his students happened to hear it. That’s
How it goes for us teachers—ever-wise

We aim and aim to be, as citizens cast
Us onto thrones of gold and wild guesses,
What a view! Did it ever feel too vast

To you, Aunt Lin, that map that curses, blesses
Us with endless, shining roads?
I don’t know, I say again. It messes

With me, cruel doubt, and gnaws and pokes and goads—
Doubt about adding, atoms, afterlife,
Doubt about what might survive or explode—

You were a science teacher, not a wife
Or parent, but a mother all the same,
Wielding goggles and a dissecting-knife

And making children doubt and doubt again
Till lights shot up among the field of hands
And all stood, silent, staring at the flame,

The conflagration on their tiny land
Of learning, the fruit of their labors long,
A flash of something true, of something grand,

Hard to explain in lab report or song:
A consolation. Is that where you are?
I see you shining somewhere in a throng

Of light, and heat, and burning—much like a star,
But vaster. Still, the children want to know—
Is that where you are? Is that where we’ll go?

.

.

Manhattan

In Midtown, massive cavern of my youth,
Skyscrapers flashed with phantoms of the truth,
All screens and sun-shadows along the walls
On either side like brick and metal jaws.
Within it rushed the world, in shoes and buses,
Fodder for New York’s never-sated trusses,
And deeper, in its groaning gut, the train
Twisted inside its middle like a chain.

We took that train each Monday. You were eight,
And danced effortlessly over curb and grate
And didn’t know what half the ads were saying.
The city couldn’t comprehend your playing.
And when the weather got crueler and colder
You sat there with me, ear upon my shoulder,
And round us roared the city, like a storm.
The earth cried out. Something was being born.

.

.

Betsy K. Brown is a teacher and chair of humanities at an Arizona high school, and a graduate of Seattle Pacific University’s MFA in Creative Writing program. She has been previously published in First Things, The Classical Outlook, and Autumn Sky Poetry. Her poetry collection, City Nave, will be published by Wipf and Stock this summer. You can read more of my work at betsykbrown.com.