TWENTY-THREE

Butterfly led a lesson
on her love of second-hand clothes
creating a space
in the sixth grade English class
for her students to claim
pride in potential sources of shame
and they wrote
about being short, or poor, or uncool,
recognizing in their teacher
how confidence can be disarming.
After work,
we went to the Russian candy shop
around the corner from the school
under the tracks on 86th St.
The woman at the checkout said,
"You are so beautiful,
your features so European,"
and as Butterfly paid
for her coffee, she replied,
"I'm 100% African-American."
Her hands were like
the heavy velvet curtains
you see at old theaters,
framing the open set of her face,
her dark braids, brown eyes,
wide nose. We laughed,
Butterfly went to her car,
and I took the train home
to my empty Brooklyn apartment.
I was 23 years old.