First Day of School

By Belden Johnson

You seem to take it all in stride, son,
while I’m both excited and holding a species of pain
here in my heart. To what am I giving you over?
You are so beautiful in your clear-eyed

view, your bright curiosity, your love
of learning. Today you enter The System.
The left side of your face is still puffy
from the angry yellowjacket at Carr Lake.

You look like an old prizefighter who can take
the punches. I’m your anxious trainer, waiting
in your corner. Keep your chin tucked under
your shoulder, son, and your jab up.

I peek in the window. Already you have learned
the Most Important Skills: (1) to sit still at your
desk, & (2) to raise your hand before speaking.
I want to cry, for you, for me, for acculturation.

Neither Mommy nor I kissed you goodbye.
We succumbed to the It Isn’t Done.
Perhaps, with us in your corner,
You’ll do a bit better than we.

After the First Day of School

By Belden Johnson

When I asked you, at first you said it was
fine. You told me the Rules:
Don’t walk on the grass or you’ll have
to do 50 push-ups.

“I can’t even do one push-up,”
you tell me, frightened.” I don’t want
to hurt the grass. Why don’t they just
tell us to be nice to the grass?”

That night, just before you went to
sleep in my arms, you turned to me
dreamily and said, “I would hate
to go back there tomorrow.”

These poems appeared in the Spring 2005 IPA Newsletter.