At best, grading is like
getting a compliment you asked for.

Mostly it is like asking for a compliment
and getting stabbed repeatedly by forks,
or like editing your own poems
with no pen
the mistakes are permanent
tomato sauce on a new dress,
only space for reprimand.

I search
for the line
to make my reflection
what I wish,
I want to see how brilliant
I have been,

but mostly I am not.

And you have so carefully written
all of these essays
I have to read
with no hope of going counter clockwise
to when I could have said
“Wait, before you write that,
think about this.”

But that moment is gone,
so now I must be
constructive.

“Nice handwriting,”
I could helplessly say,
and then sometimes I laugh—
you have been humorous
revealed yourself somehow
in this stilted form
you went beyond my limited
expectations.

Joy.