Dear 7th Grade

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Die! I'd spray your desktops, Virus, die!
Eyes rolling, you'd rip a paper towel to dry.

In that year of COVID protocols
distancing deadened our normally boisterous halls.

We knew each other only from the laptop
or, in person, only from the mask up.

M., under a cloud of curls would rise
the gleam of insight dawning in your eyes.

K., straightening up, you'd squint at me
to give some word of mine your scrutiny.

D., on screen, you showed what phrases are for:
hitting the wall and writhing on the floor.

S., your glance outside meant, time to run.
Returned, you'd crouch and write 'til class was done.

N., our on-screen anchor, you'd listen and wait
until discussion flagged, then commentate.

H., brows raised in incredulity,
shamed other readers into empathy.

Lost at the start, I found the grace I'd need
in your determination that we would succeed.

Image by Susan Rouse.
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When the pandemic hit, I felt in my fortieth year of teaching the same dread and inadequacy of my horrific first. All the tricks I'd learned to engage students in a classroom were suddenly obsolete, even dangerous.

One assignment carried over from the before-times: to write someone or something a poem of gratitude in the manner of Kobe Bryant's "Dear Basketball." This is my entry in that category. NOTE: The letters, not initials, sometimes stand for composites of students who filled similar roles in different class sections. - WSS