Jennifer Hyde Dracos-Tice
Roar of All Septembers
She stood on stage, class president,
red boa round her neck, sparkly
tiara: raised her hand, and the party began.
Opening trumpets of Earth, Wind, and Fire—
and seniors burst like victorious fans
through double doors behind
teachers who lurked in back
for quick get-away, drank
forbidden coffee, fidgeted
with phones. Kids streamed
down aisles in slow motion,
spinning, striking disco poses,
progressing arm in arm,
a parade bugled forth
under the bars of September,
of life that can’t see
its end. Do you recall
summoning our memories,
faculty on our feet, pulled
into the aisles, too, reliving
ancient pep rallies in wooden bleachers,
roar of all Septembers, young bodies,
beads tossing hair pumping
palms bumping sweets flying,
tuba trombone flash of brass—
scrim lift and fall, we celebrated
the beginning of our end.
Trying to Transfer the Weight
1.
Fourth position, practiced at the barre, preparation
for center work. Shifting in plié, from back foot
to front, anchors the arabesque’s rise.
Travel in triplets across the floor, one-two-three,
waltz of the modern dancer, down-up-down,
cover swaths of sprung floor, launch
into a partner’s hands, which grip below hipbones,
rutch tights pulled over a black leotard.
When a man lifts a partner, she must
pull abdominal muscles tight, as if tethering
them to her spine’s inside, careful
not to give him all
her dead weight.
2.
My wife’s working air traffic again
in her nightmares, radar down, pushing tin,
no one answering her hand-off phone calls
from Atlanta Center to a faceless guy
in another underground bunker
in Tulsa or maybe Charlotte,
to hand off control of a plane
to a new airspace. Burden
of 200 souls on her back,
pulling her neck, already straining,
until she wakes up, wrenching covers
tight like locked seatbelts and
screams. I touch her arm, sweat
cold, press my palm
between her breasts. She
sits up, turns on the light.
3.
Knees pulled tight under chin,
arms hugging shins, a student
will sit close by, looking
at anything but me.
So, how are you?
And the stories inch in,
sit around us, fat full caterpillars
on the classroom floor, stories—
pills taken
or that should have been
an uncle staying
down the carpeted hall
from her bedroom
a sidewalk soaked
with a cousin’s blood
a fall down stairs
to take care of it
Today, my student leans
forward in a sage-green chair, sinks
back, eyes on a carpet square,
wants to tell me, but wants
me not to tell. I can’t
not tell. I’ll be fine, I’m fine—
She unfolds each leg, pulls denim
purse to her chest, shoulders
her blue nylon pack, book
corners jutting like fetal
elbows into her back.
Jennifer Hyde Dracos-Tice (she/her) has poems in Witness, Psaltery & Lyre, SWWIM, Literary Mama, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Her debut collection, Lodged in the Belly, was published in 2024 by Main Street Rag. A long-time high school English teacher with literature degrees from Brown and Indiana-Bloomington, she lives with her wife in Florida. Learn more at her website: jhdracostice.com/
