I sit in the back of the class; I feel strange things
As I try my verse.
And the more my teacher likes it
The more James Jones thinks it’s worse.
My teacher, I think, likes James Jones.
She stops everything when he phones.
My teacher is beautiful. We laugh at her.
Her poetry lectures are greeted with laughter.
She says, “Put Marxism in your work!
A poet who is not Marxist will look like a jerk!”
And we laughed, “Why?
We write poems about New England! Or the sky!”
“Marxism” she said—and we knew she was a fool
By the way she said, “Marxism.” Did she belong in school?—
“Marxism is extravagant, hopeless, moralism. This
Is what poetry is!” And with her mouth she made a kiss.
Then, she secretly winked at me.
In that moment, I understood poetry.
My teacher, the Marxist, Marilyn Monroe,
Was a great teacher. She taught poetry that year.
(Later, they said James Jones was queer.)
She taught me, “Say your poems slow,
With a sigh, like slowly melting snow.”