Walking Backwards
Kyle Hemmings, July 2009
I want to return to St. Thomas
grow small and wooden,
a messenger for the nuns,
a puppet for the teacher who made us do
paper cut-outs of the presidents.
I will grow still and horizontal
in old hallways that hid the students' names.
I will grow sparse at the sound
of rosary beads jingling,
the rush of Sister's Adrian's steps
striking panic into the heart of a boy
who gave away the shape of the sky
in his answers in Catechism,
who focused on nothing else
but the tremolo of a bluebird's prediction
that someone’s future was in doubt.
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