Year after year I decorate and
redecorate my classroom. I cover chipped paint and
fingerprint stains with leftover construction paper.
Sticky scissors slice the even colors
that become apples, trees, bees, and flowers,
while the blades munch softly.
I redefine, lay out my collages
to set fresh, deep breaths.
All of it a reconstruction.
Then, my students burst in,
splattering with lively chatter.
The collage never ceases.
Beyond the miniature models, parks and cities
are the four classroom walls rewritten with
reckless spirit and contraband sharpies.
Amber acrylic honey melts from the bark
of the cardboard tree I pinned to the door,
and drips into my cup.
Later, I sit here with you, another reconstruction
in front of a textured tree, smells of wintergreen,
but the bark is dry and so is my cup.
And now, imagine
that it wasn’t us.
The collage never ceases.
I cut off my legs and turn them into
extensions of my head
and do the same with my heart.
Without the evidence
who tells you that it, actually
is us? And that you really exist?
Now, we’re sitting here, for closure
buried under numerous hardened paper layers.
All of it a reconstruction.
To set fresh, deep breaths
on the only picture of us left
I stick a daisy on your head.