Kindergarten
Kate Kobosko
At recess, they give me
odd chunks of things pried
from the brown lowcountry: old
quarters blackening, zippers
unmoored from their jagged
counterparts, broken winged
butterfly hair clips. I call
this place the fish playground
because of the great clear bowl
they wave at me from, high
between the slides. The plastic
is murky with prints from fingers,
palms, lips. They are five,
some of them six, always asking
questions. Each day we practice
recess rules like loud, essential
mantras:
I am kind.
I am safe.
What’s on the ground stays on the ground.
The sound of their small voices repeating
mine is torrential, sixteen bells
with different chimes. They never
follow the rules, running clumsily
and depositing their ground
treasures into my hand, lost
in each forgetting, rediscovery.
Kate Kobosko earned her MFA in Poetry from Emerson College and has an undergraduate degree from Eckerd College. Her poetry has been published in Autofocus, Oakland Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, and others. Originally from Maryland, she now lives in Charleston, South Carolina, where she teaches elementary school.