Student Teacher

the docent guides us
through arrays of modern
and native artists

she knows history
as told through the white man’s lips
my students tune out

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in the third floor hall
a border touts a blue sky
peppered with soft clouds

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in haunted vocals
the artist sings the DREAM Act
as the clouds roll by

my kids find blankets
as thin as Mylar balloons
and read their stories

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when my Honduran
says, “Our blankets were warmer,”
the docent’s perplexed

“You mean… You? You crossed?”
“Yes. And they kept me just like this.”
(like rats in a cage)

“Did you come alone?”
her disbieving voice shakes
(new history here)

“Yes… I was alone.”
her honest confession steals
the docent’s lesson

(she, like all teachers
thought she could share her knowledge
only to be schooled)

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