to mrs. moak.
the french teacher who stood
so short
above the ground,
worshipping everything
of France.
a Francophile.
from bread to wine
to the Eiffel Tower,
but rarely mentioning
the Maginot Line.
her red hair, the feather in
her plum hat,
the dangle of jewels
around her neck.
a cloud of perfume hovering
above that
powdered face.
those dagger nails pointing
for one of us
to annunciate
our vowels,
to accentuate with accent
grave or aigu.
standing at the blackboard
with chalk in hand,
pressing onward
teaching despite our resistance
to learning,
whispering in english
our other plans.
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