It’s still dark, campus a maze of hills and towers,
when I drive into the garage, wave an ID — pale adult
ghost of my student past — until the machine blinks
and admits me. I circle through pillars and stale air,
liminal shadows, looking for a space to meet my other
self. She’s a competent professional and follows established
protocol. I switch off the engine to wait, swallow the last
of my coffee and the breakfast I’ve packed. She arrives
and tidies my hair, fastening it up. I tuck away
her sensitive edges. I’d like to think I’m the handler
and she the spy here, but I don’t ask. We’ll betray
one another in small ways all semester. This routine,
though, we both trust: a flip through the day’s script,
a final turn of the key. A near stranger emerges
to summon the elevator — a self who knows best
practices, passcodes, catch phrases. I’ll worry
later about all the ways the world has already failed
these students, setting them up to feel nothing lasts
or matters. But it’s dawn now — so I fold my hopes
amid our keys and notes, and cross the bridge again.
Click here to read Ceridwen Hall on the origin of the poem.
Image: Caleb Rogers on Unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- The Adjunct - September 16, 2024