Evidence

C-minus in mathematics.

The teacher wrote: could try harder.

As if the trying was visible,

as if it could be measured and made broader

than understanding, as if I hadn't

already tried, as if my trying

wasn't something she should have understood.

I was sixteen and in the woods,

lost, and my mother checked the box—

just a small pen mark—

and that mark locked

me into permanence. Proof

I didn't measure up. The roof

came down.

Now my nephew asks my grades.

I tell him fine. I don't explain the shades

of yellow on that paper, the fold,

the way your past writes itself in gold

ink that won't wash out,

that becomes evidence, no doubt,

of who you were supposed to be.

The card sits in a box I can't free

myself from. I could tear it. I won't.

I carry it like proof of what I don't

want to remember but can't forget.