I would do anything for him—anything except dissect a frog, a requirement of biology class. My friend Sam stepped in for me when we were called upon to perform the dissection. I was grateful to Sam for this.
One morning, Mr. Kaufman stopped at my desk and said, “Please come see me at the end of the day.” Sam shot me a look, but I did not meet his gaze. He was not happy about my feelings for Mr. Kaufman.
Somehow, I made it through the endless hours of French, history, and algebra. At 2:45, the final bell rang. I walked down the long hall and stood in the doorway of Mr. Kaufman’s cubicle. There were stacks of books and papers everywhere, except on one bookshelf filled with a huge pothos plant.
“You can’t kill those plants,” I said. “My mother has one. It just grows and grows.”
“That’s true. I’ve had this one for five years,” Mr. Kaufman said, as he transferred books from one chair to another. “Have a seat. How are your classes? How do you like being in the chorus?”
He knew that I took chorus. That meant he had been checking my schedule. “Classes are fine and I love singing. I’m an alto.”
He nodded. “Alto, that’s great. But are you working too hard? You look extremely thin. Are you eating enough?”
“I don’t have much time to eat when I’m working on extra credit assignments. The Scientific American articles are really hard. I sit for hours in the library, reading and taking notes, and sometimes, I just forget to eat.”
“Why?” said Mr. Kaufman
“Why do I forget to eat?”
“No, why are you torturing yourself with those journals?”
“To impress you,” I said, not sure if I had spoken the words out loud.
He leaned back in his chair. “You have impressed me, but there’s no need to work so hard. You’re young, you’ve got lots of time. Pace yourself. Do you see what I mean?”
“Not really,” I murmured. His eyes were deep blue. I twisted the chain of my heart locket. It was the kind that opened. You could put a picture in it, but I hadn’t yet. “Are you going to send me to the guidance counselor?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mr. Kaufman said.
“Are you going to call my mother?”
He tugged at his tie. “Only if you’d like me to.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said, and he smiled. I loved how he looked when he smiled. In class, he was always so serious when he taught us about lysosomes and mitochondria.
He placed both hands on the desk and leaned towards me. “Here’s the deal. No more extra credit. Your class work is exemplary, except for that frog business. I’d like you to check in with me from time to time so I know you’re eating enough and that you’re OK….”
I wanted to say, “When should I check in? How? How often?” but I kept quiet. I stood up, and Mr. Kaufman stood up, too. He extended his hand across the desk but I didn’t dare take it.
And as I walked down the hallway, his voice echoing in my head, I was gripped by a hunger so strong that I feared I might never be satisfied.
Author's Comment
Sometimes stories simmer in my mind for years or even decades. For “Hunger,” I reached back in time to find my voice at age fourteen. I wanted to dwell in the world of reality suffused with fantasy where teenagers live, unbeknownst to their parents and teachers, a hazy world filled with confusion and also redemption.
How can we find meaning in the face of aging, illness, and the inevitability of death? How can we respond to the double plague of a fierce pandemic and a divided society?
The keenly observant and urgent poems of The Holy & Broken Bliss are grounded in daily existence, human tenderness, the rituals of a long marriage, and the poet's ongoing spiritual quest. In the middle of a world that seems to be breaking down into suffering and anger, the spare and direct lines of these poems, surrounded by silence, offer a kind of healing. The poems ask us to consider what living looks like inside of ongoing misery (misery we often are responsible for making and accept-ing). They call us to ask ourselves how we locate joy and even laughter when despair is ever-present.
The Holy & Broken Bliss contemplates free will, autonomy, self-control, the commodification of ourselves, and our desires for vengeance, satia- tion, rage, and acknowledgment of our collective sicknesses, along with the sacred possibilities of love, communication with nature, the power of art, and the "need to praise."
"Ostriker confronts the intricate dance between spiritual despair and revelatory beauty in her ethereal 17th collection. ... [The Holy & Broken Bliss] resonates long after the final page, reminding readers that even in a fractured, plague-stricken world, there is still a living, breathing force within all things."
—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review
Available from Alice James Books, Amazon or Bookshop
Robin Mayer Stein started writing at age five and never stopped. She grew up in Jackson Heights NY, and moved to Boston to attend law school. Her work has appeared in Home Planet News, Fiddlehead Folio and the new renaissance. She received a poetry grant from the Massachusetts Cultural Council. She speaks at schools and libraries about her book, My Two Cities: A Story of Immigration and Inspiration. She loves sharing stories with Stella, Maya, and Liam, her grandkids.
After forty years in finance, Linda K. Allison is enjoying life as a writer, photographer, and explorer. Her work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, 2023 Utah’s Best Poetry, Pose Anthology, and others. Her photography has appeared or is forthcoming in Burningword Literary Journal, The Sunlight Press, and others.
I like the concise combinations of two: Sam/Mr. Kaufman, no hunger for food with hunger for romance, pothos at home and in Kaufman’s office, playing with the locket/necktie. Thank you.