The Poetry Teacher Feeds Me a Raisin
It feels like communion
She’s like a priestess
I’m sucking
on a round sweet gob
of sunlight
And I see her buying the raisins,
handing money
to the pale register girl
Her hands are strong
like my mother’s
She’s feeding me,
I’ve never had a teacher
feed me and earlier I wanted
to shrink down and crawl
into her pocket, her purse,
into the braided locks of her hair,
holding her fast
as if life depended on it,
and of course it does.
I have been touched
by the light and cannot
go back except
to make things sweet
like this fruit.
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 
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