By Caroline Earleywine
Footage of the Titanic’s departure shows passengers swarmed her decksto say farewell. Women waved handkerchiefs across the railing, any voice
or sound drowned in silent film. What’s more haunting is her body
abandoned on the ocean floor –– all those ballrooms once filled
with laughter and dancing, now an empty tomb fish float across
like ghosts. Now a crushed piano, its keys crooked teeth in a broken
smile, a portrait of decay. Rust-icicles form a beard across the ship’s
face, which now we know is the sign of her second death, the metal-
eating bacteria that every day makes her smaller. This is an iceberg
we can see coming, but are just as powerless to stop. Is it more
graceful, more gentle, this death? How many ways are there
to disappear? In my classroom, a book vanishes from
the shelf. A rainbow sticker is torn from the wall. Every day
I walk in and find I have become smaller. I pause before
I mention my wife. I pretend the news doesn’t exist.
I wear a Black Lives Matter pin on my lanyard but
never say the words out loud. I am impartial
to the point of invisibility. It is more than empty
ballrooms. More than the way my body
is becoming see-through, how my rust-
beard drags the floor. More than
the iceberg we see coming, that is
already here. It’s not even that
it may be too late to pull myself
to the surface and have any
part of me left. It’s that
I don’t think I’ll like
whatever
remains.
Venom
By Caroline Earleywine
My first classroom was at the end
of the hall. My teacher desk sat on
a platform that I sometimes tripped
on when I’d write on the board,
and the day we read a Medusa
poem, a tiny snake emerged from
its worn carpet, my ninth graders
suddenly tittering with excitement.
I wouldn’t let anyone touch it, emptied
a trashcan and put it top-down on
the snake, a makeshift cage, and evacuated
my students outside while the principals
took care of the unwelcome visitor.
That was the year my students acted out
Romeo and Juliet, learned the lines
by heart. All day I watched Romeos
mime drinking poison and slump
dramatically on the classroom floor
moments before Juliet opened her eyes.
That was the year a boy asked to speak
to me in the hall. He shifted from one foot
to the other, wrung his hands, said he needed
to tell me something, said I seemed like a person
he could talk to and before I could process
what was happening, I told him I was
a “mandated reporter,” that I had to report
if he was in danger, from himself or others,
and the boy’s mouth closed, and he said
“Never mind,” and no matter how I tried
to reassure him, he wouldn't talk to me.
A week later, he stopped coming to school.
When I talked to the counselors, they said
there was nothing they could do. I will always
wonder about the harm I did that day, the words
I stopped him from saying — I will always regret
the poison of my fear.
Things That Could Be Said AboutBoth Divorce And Leaving Teaching
By Caroline Earleywine
Think of the children. It’s not meant to be
easy. But you seemed so happy. You were
made for this. I just thought you were in it for
the long haul. You’re so good together. Every
relationship has problems. Have you tried
counseling? I just always saw you
together. What else will you do? You made
a promise. It’s not meant to be
so hard. I don’t know how you made it
this long. You deserve more. Love
shouldn’t be so painful. Good
for you. There’s a whole world
on the other side of this grief – just
hold on. It gets so much better.
I’m proud of you. I know how hard
you tried. Someday, it won’t hurt
so much. It’s okay to remember
the good times. You need to take time
to heal. You deserve to feel safe. To feel
loved. Someday, this will all make
sense. You’ll look back and understand
why it could never work out. You are not
a failure. Sometimes leaving
is coming home to yourself. How brave
to make that change. To choose
you. What a good example
you are setting.
Think of the children.
Caroline Earleywine is a poet and educator who taught high school English in Central Arkansas for ten years. She’s a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and was a 2021 finalist for Nimrod’s Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry. She earned her MFA from Queens University in Charlotte, and Sibling Rivalry Press published her chapbook Lesbian Fashion Struggles in 2020. A Jack McCarthy Book Prize winner, her debut full-length collection, I Now Pronounce You, will be out with Write Bloody Publishing in April 2024. She lives in Little Rock with her wife and two dogs. You can keep up with her work at www.carolineearleywine.com.
