Straight as a nun I sit. <br />My fingers foolish before paper and pen <br />hide in my palms. I hear the slow, accented echo <br /> How are yu? I ahm fine. How are yu? <br />of the other women who clutch notebooks and blush <br />at their stiff lips resting <br />sounds that float graceful as <br />bubbles from their children's mouths. <br />My teacher bends over me, gently squeezes <br />my shoulders, the squeeze I give my sons, <br />hands louder than words. <br />She slides her arms around me: <br />a warm shawl, lifts my left arm <br />onto the cold, lined paper. <br />"Señora, don't let it slip away," she says <br />and opens the ugly, soap-wrinkled fingers of my right hand <br />with a pen like I pry open the lips of a stubborn grandchild. <br />My hand cramps around the thin hardness. <br />"Let it breathe," says this woman who knows <br />my hand and tongue knot, but she guides <br />and I dig the tip of my pen into that white. <br />I carve my crooked name, and again at night <br />until my hand and arm are sore, <br />I carve my crooked name, <br />my name.<br /><br />Pat Mora<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/se-ora-x-no-more/
