My school mother sits at the edge of a desk

Dropping carefully worded bombshells

Across the ruts of her students’ minds.

I sit and watch, smiling to myself.

 

Last year, I was that student.

Last year, she spoke to me

And those carefully worded bombshells

Broke their way through bias and thought patterns,

Shaking me to my very core.

 

For her, students are precious.

For her, it’s not makeup—it’s seldom-used war paint.

She gets by with the clothes on her back and just enough to eat

Because

She loves

Her students.

 

How rare is this mixture of

Professionalism, kindness

And honesty?

How rare is this flavor of

Mentor, mother, teacher?

 

My school mother sits at the edge of her desk

Dropping lovingly worded bombshells

Into the customary grooves of her students’ minds.

I sit and watch, marveling to myself.