We'd Learn Later That Her Husband Left
Editor’s Note: This poem by Adam Houle is being presented as part of our special focus on poetry during #PoetryMonth in April. Please read our introduction to the series.
Though we were young and knew little,
we were good Catholics, and kind, taught
to work in quiet, and when we did talk
to talk from below so that each exchange
took place on a gentle slope, an inclined plane
or pulley system, a simple machine,
like one of history’s many that’s kept
the species ticking. So we were ticking
when Teacher Nancy turned her attention
to somewhere above our heads, a point beyond
us. She cried quietly as the room shushed
with the soft whisper of safety scissors
that snipped to shape Noah’s felt animals.
I—more than most—loved her and wondered
as I cut who I could hurt to stop her hurt,
sure that some violence God could endorse,
that mercy’s counterweight is just and swift.
That I, in my kindness, must deliver it.
Poem originally appeared in Cave Wall, and Gathere (Sundress Publiations). Used with permission by the poet.
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