Two kids, heads down
stub the dirt, angry and ashamed,
on the edge of the playground.
Her hair flies
over dusty face
and scraped knee.
His hair stands
army erect,
guarding snot from nose.
They don’t know what to do.
But both sense the enormity
of the tussled breach between them.
And they both hurt,
though they can’t say it,
out of fear
that the outstretched hand
will be ignored,
with no entwining care to follow.
They long for a teacher
to come sort it out
so they can resume
their easy play—
romping over fields,
splashing through creeks,
finding hellgrammites under rocks
and dragonfly magic
lolling on lazy rivers
by which they picnic
with whatever each has brought
to share with delight, in joy,
for friendship’s tranquil flow—
that now, harsh words
shoved aside, has stopped.
“What’s it to be?” each wonders,
knowing they could turn
in this separate silence
and brush off soiled pain
to lie like no-man’s-land
between them,
coming out less often to play
while exploring
new territories with others
until one day their intercourse
is rarely missed
nor its absence noted.
But then, almost imperceptibly,
a finger inches out
and, seen, is met
with relieved clasp
and turning, tearful hug
heaving, “I’m sorry.
It hurts that I hurt you.”
She wipes his nose
with her sleeve.
He scrapes off his sweatshirt
to bathe her knee
with careful consideration.
Their eyes rise with hope,
then smile in shy compassion
and amazed discovery:
they’ve become their teacher.