Anchor

Mid-80s are nothing to sneeze at,

particularly when the teacher is

a grim never-was with a red pen

where his prick ought to be,

and particularly when

she spends evenings watching cousins

(2 and 6 and 7) so her aunt

can pick up a double shift or shot

and she types that essay at midnight

between the toddler’s crying jags.

And she might have done it

despite everything,

might have found more,

more than a rusting doublewide,

more than CPS calls,

more than eleventh grade,

more than part time at Dollar General

and cigarette breaks behind dumpsters

and YouTube on cracked screens and

bounced checks and Slim Jim dinners and

Milwaukee’s Best vacations and

screaming and shouting and crying and

fear and hunger and sadness and

bruises and wanting and wanting

and despite

dropout boyfriend who said no condom

it’s OK he’d pull out

she might yet have found more

only she told him she loved him.