the english teacher

you had an english
teacher once
who was as close
to evil
as one could get
without horns
and a tail.
she made you read
poetry aloud
in class,
standing at
your wooden desk,
memorizing lines
of Whitman,
Shakespeare,
Hardy, and god
forbid, Emily
Dickinson as well.
and now, so many
years later, you
wish that you
could find her with
her chalk white
hands, that netted
bun on her head,
to kiss her on
the lips, hug
her forcefully,
and tell her
that all is well.