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After School Reopened The students who had died Brought me old tests and papers; They’d cleaned out their rooms And wanted me to file their work Graded A through F in stacks. There’s no turning down the dead— Some mornings, a box of scrawls Sat outside the door. Finally, The names were torn off, paragraphs Missing, leaving me to decide How they began and ended, Who wrote each one and why. On my Kent, Ohio, street Lived a woman whose garage Was full of found shoes. “Local,” She told me, “all of them, so it’s Just a matter of time to match.” She showed me a two-tiered shelf. “So far,” she said, “six pairs, This last one taking a year To mate,” something to tell The months-dead plagiarist Who dared our teacher to prove it: “Where,” he said, “in all the world, Are you going to look?” 83 P 1FINCKE_pages.qxd 5/21/08 9:31 AM Page 83 ...

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