A Random Saint Rides the Bus

 

A Random Saint Rides the Bus

With a face of wretched scars like layered pond scum
in the seat beside me she says without prompting
    “I teach seventh grade social studies
    because I love to bend a mind like molten metal
    before it cools hard. Hm. Hm-mum.”

She hums one, two notes like commas
as she talks — tuning her thoughts.
    “My cubs, that age, the hormones hit so hard
    you can hear their heartbeats.
    Beat-beat, so loud.
    Hm. Hm hm.
    My cubs, every day they navigate among the flotsam.
    Just look at this bus. What they deal with.
    And you and me, right? Because
    we’re all riding on this bus. Hm-mum.

    “My cubs don’t know their values.
    They may not know their own gender.
    It’s a race to develop personal integrity
    before the peer group kills them. Hm.
    They need somebody who will listen to their heartbeats.
    Somebody must say ‘Yes that’s right’
    or ‘No that’s absolutely wrong’
    though mostly what I say is ‘There’s no absolute here’
    but I love those emerging souls and maybe
    I help shape them in some small way. Hm. Hm.

    “You wonder what happened to my face?
    One of my cubs threw acid.
    One of my lost ones.
    Hm hm hm.”

A thin gold chain around her neck,
a gold cross upon her chest.
    “Here’s my stop” she says.
    “Have a great day.”

……

From my book Random Saints
First published in MOON Magazine
Painting by Sarah White