For John L. Stanizzi

Margaret repeats kyrie eleison
and I don’t know what it means, 
though I know it has to do with the church, 
a place I haven’t been since
I was a student of Johnnie’s.

I’m seeing him praise poetry
live on zoom, for the first time
in fifteen years.

I can’t get over how differently
the same he looks, 
still wearing Rasta colors,
in a fabric we would’ve called
a drug rug in high school.

I see his face screw downward
as he listens, the same way
he would when we listened
to Thelonious in his fifth period
Jazz & Poetry class.

I wish I could still search
for his approval
when it didn’t feel like begging. 

I think he’s the reason
I love art as much as I do. 

When Professor Singer’s
father for the first time cried,
I realized how much stronger
these octogenarians are 
than I am.

Until he reads
his poem about his dental hygienist 
and I remember he is just a man.
But I don’t know him. 

His students are in the chat,
as I am for Johnnie, so perhaps 
he’s worthy of the same. 
his pronouns are
in his display name anyhow, 
so maybe he’s more
than an old man at an open mic. 

This reading is nothing like Silas House.
There is no bright green hair,
nose piercings or combat boots.

There’s no theme for Marla, 
but she starts out reading worms
and I know I’ll love her. 

She reads to me like I’m a child.
Marla is funny,
the first of the four corners
to make me laugh tonight. 

But like all great works of humor,
you’re caught in the trap by the end 
and tears of joy turn sour like
the pickle juice she squirted in her nose. 

But she brings me back to elation again
with walking the dog without a bra.

Then we move to Johnnie
and his voice deposits me
back into his classroom 
at Bacon Academy,
the way he lingers on his Ts.
I can’t write my emotions
fast enough,
all I know is he devastates me
and then builds me back up again. 

And then Kat says Johnnie
was her teacher too and 
she read us a poem,
about cunnilingus
and it wrapped 
up everything you need to
know about the truth with
which Johnnie taught us.

No topic needed kid gloves or
shame and it did more for me
than any math class
taught by a man who stood over us
and glared at our incorrect answers.

When I was congratulated 
by my fellow pomos
for my risk and vulnerability
I have to thank Staniz