Christine Taylor | Landscape with Familiar Faces | Poets Resist

Christine Taylor, a multiracial English teacher and librarian, resides in her hometown Plainfield, New Jersey. She is the EIC of Kissing Dynamite: A Journal of Poetry and assistant editor at Human/Kind Journal. Christine has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and her work appears in Modern Haiku, Room, and The Rumpus among others.

Christine Taylor’s Website.

Also by Christine Taylor: Two Poems Surprise City Charade

Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry: Open Wound Petal: A Zuihitsu Friendly Reminder, A Zuihitsu When They Come To My Fellow Clinic Escorts: Englewood, NJ

Poets Resist
Edited by Sage
February 27, 2019

Christine Taylor

Landscape with Familiar Faces

I’ve seen that face before the one that Covington High School kid shot at Native American elder Nathan Phillips. I’ve seen that face before, peering down at me over my computer screen. I’ve seen that face before his body looming. Class has just ended, and he’s outside the door screaming on his iPhone. The tenor of his voice pings off metal lockers, the hallways quiet as students funnel to the dining hall. Overhead a fluorescent light stammers. I wish he would just go to lunch. Apparently, he doesn’t give a fuck about what grade he’s getting in English, and I’m a stupid bitch. So… so… He kisses his mother with that mouth — I can only imagine what he does with his hands. I have papers to grade, lessons to plan. Ignore the hallway. I’ve been out for a week with pneumonia days at home puffing a nebulizer. Focus. But he comes back in, slams the door shut says he has a question about the book we’re reading. I say okay fumble for my copy of The Great Gatsby which tears from the desktop. It’s been fastened in place with double-sided tape. This book has traveled continents. Now here it is in my hands, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg ripped thin. That face. He demands to know why he’s gotten a C- on his essay. I point out my comments on thesis, evidence, form. That face. His father, who has a degree in literature from Ivy League X and is friends with the Board president says he has written an A paper. That face. His chest heaves, his hands obscured. I calculate the distance between here and the door: how many desks would I have to hurdle to make it out in my skin? My heart drums a song of the old ones.