For Micha's Mother, Who Signs

It is not poetry you fear, but poets,

their indelible brand

of words. How will your daughter

escape the mark men hanged

young women for in Salem?

I am nothing more than a teacher,

like you. See, I have removed

my shoes and socks. I am rolling

my trousers above my ankles.

No cloven hooves. Long feet and toes

like you and your beautiful daughter.

It is language that has won

her over, earth-bound words

walking orderly across the page

like children holding to

the rope attached to your wrist,

teacher and students

traversing the noisy street

at the crosswalk, with the light

of your fingers composing

the line your children read,

each syllable's afterimage trailing

your quick passage of hands

conducting the boys and girls

safely from one curb to the other.