RAISING MY HAND

One of the first things we learn in school is

if we know the answer to a question

We must raise our hand and be called on

before we can speak.

How strange is seemed to me then,

raising my hand to be called on,

How at first I just blurted out,

but that was not permitted

How often I knew the answer

And the teacher (knowing I knew)

Called on others I knew (and she knew)

had it wrong!

How I’d stretch my arm

as if it would break free

and shoot through the roof

like a rocket!

How I’d wave and groan and sigh,

Even hold up my aching arm

with my other hand

Begging to be called on,

Please, me, I know the answer!

Almost leaping from my seat

hoping to hear my name.

Twenty-nine now, alone in the wilds,

Seated on some rocky outcrop

under all the stars,

I find myself raising my hand

as I did in first grade

Mimicking the excitement

and expectance felt then,

No one calls on me

but the wind.