The Tutor

My mouth, mangled with braces,

Bottom-row bulked in plastic, the top strapped in wire.

The school year I barely smiled,

 

His was the only class I liked.

Slurring through collections Mum had at home,

I’d learnt  tricky words just to please him.

 

It was he who told me about your little brother,

Explained the poppy bruise and knocking clear.

Who’d laughed in dismay

When that boy I didn’t like,

Suggested your silent, coughing mother was heartless.

 

I’d skulk to sick bay, on chemistry afternoons,

Wishing I’d been born in thirty-nine

And found myself there that day,

Almost connected to that same place,

The same story-telling, sea-sailing, Wake-watching race.

I imagined I’d reached you before two o’clock,

Inside the only time you had alone.

 

I wish I’d seen you,

Pale teenager outside Matron’s room,

Just so I could say something kind

To you, to comfort you.

I wonder why I didn’t think

That would make you awkward.

I didn’t think then, I felt.

 

He, with your first spine-cracked anthology naturally open,

Told me that snowdrops didn’t last long.

You used them because of his death.

They, like him, had been brief, beautiful

And swiftly left.

 

Had you swapped yellow roses for effect?

That I don’t believe,

You never said a single word that wasn’t meant.

 

I believed that snowdrops were in full bloom.

The aunts, cousins and mother’s friends,

That’s why they used them

To fill your brother’s room.

 

Drinking tea I heard the news,

I thought I wanted to track him down,

That teacher with pasley ties.

Thank him for that link in our chain.

But it’s not that

 

I want to sneak into empty days,

Your pupil, your dearest friend.

I want you to explain the soil to me,

The digging of the earth, ambulance rides,

The miracles of Jesus

And sudden Northern storms.

 

Ten years later, I want to slur through all

I have put on my shelf,

To see you smile

When I understand.