What Remained
I originally intended to release another set of poems instead of these. The other poems were more about my initial response to getting fired. But I just couldn’t go there yet.
I decided instead to focus on the quieter phase of collapse that occurs when the meetings are over, after the announcements are made, and when the explanations become part of the official record.
This wasn’t the dramatic part of the journey. In some ways it was an exercise in grammar. I found myself speaking in past tense, not present, and certainly not future. My colleagues became my former colleagues. Possibilities became dreams we used to have about the future.
These poems all sit in that hinge moment where what was preventable became lived reality. They are in the space between what was, with all the possibilities of what could have been, and what is no longer.
Past Tense
At first you don’t notice
the language has changed
I was the dean
I came here to
When we did
I wanted to
It creeps in quietly
almost polite
with a bitter note
We used to have
We gave students
We taught that class
We saw them daily
We had the time
We talked about
We planned
We cared
Past tense
Not That It Matters
The tree-covered drive is cold and stony.
Once homely
now lonely.
The fig-tree, once heavy with fruit, stands bare.
The blooms that once glowed
have fallen or been swept away.
The doors open into a cold hall
where remnants of sound and life echo.
Closed doors are the only break in a long line.
The lights are off in many places
and those still on flicker softly.
Remembering when it welcomed us home
with light and warmth and chatter
makes seeing it now even harder.
Like the fig tree, I’ve stopped expecting fruit.
I don’t go up there any more
Not that it really matters.
While There Was Still Time
The body, they say, knows how to die.
It slows, it rallies, it sleeps, it stops.
We hold it closely, love it deeply
beg it to stay and be with us.
And yet, after a brief interlude, it goes –
for it was born to leave, it knows
shedding its purpose in this world
and carrying the soul it shaped.
The college we made was not born to die
though its seasons include the sleepy and slow.
It was born to endure, to resist, to decry
the pull of ignorance and status quo.
While strong, it was never meant to withstand
indifference, retreat, and neglect.
So we stand beside what was meant to thrive,
not because it could not endure,
but because care did not arrive
while there was still time to tend it.
Let the Day Unfold
It’s quieter today.
A heavy quiet,
marked by anticipation,
hope for emancipation
from the weight
of not being needed.
Some don’t reach out,
Respecting my new role.
Others hesitate, unsure.
It’s hard to be sure
how to approach someone
who didn’t choose to go.
Then one comes
to ask how to do my job.
I want to assist.
I came here to assist.
But I need to desist.
The institution was clear:
It no longer gets
access to my brain.