In tenth grade the teacher said
“The paper is due tomorrow
I don’t want to hear about any broken arms
or anything.”

That evening I hurt my shoulder
playing basketball
cry begged my mom
to type what I said
despite her protestations
the absurdity, my hysteria
we needed to go to the doctor
I wouldn’t budge
I was someone who
followed directions
what was wrong with that
gosh darn it?

I still remember tying my arm
my mom’s blue scarf the next morning
to get on the subway
to hand her the paper and say
“I’m sorry
I have to go to the emergency room
I think I hurt my shoulder.”

After surgery, the doctor said
my shoulder fell from its socket
as soon as the anesthesia took hold
my body relaxed, rotator cuff tear clear
broken clavicle, dented back
ready to be cared for.

Later the teacher called my house
sputtering apologies to my mother,
my mother blaming me
for misinterpreting

Yesterday I find two of my students
in hysterics over pieces due tomorrow
and I pick my brain for what I said
what gesture I made to make them fear this way

and think about teaching them figurative language
their growing interpretive brilliance
of my own hidden messages to never ever give up