What I wanted: To teach my sweet, suburban high school freshies to write love poetry. I gave them the tools, hoping they would visit the innocent days of romance, find ways to chronicle their fresh, fumbling attempts at love. I thought I might gather their ode and maybe send them in to Art Linkletter or--in case Art was dead or something--Garrison Keillor. Ah, youth.
What they wrote: Stilted and stiff stanzas, basically limericks without wheels. Bulges. Entanglements. Much wetness. You could almost hear Barry White growling in the backdrop.
What a teacher told me: "You know about the girls giving blowjobs in the stairwells?"
What?
Patricia Smith (she/her) has been called “a testament to the power of words to change lives.” She is...
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