Before I Learned to Read
All those days at home shaped by outline.The mouth perched on the couchback. Eyes tracingThe ceiling’s steps and ramps, as if to walkAcross it, as if to walk on the fresh snow.And hunger was like looking out a windowOnto thick forest, that other wall.Each page in my coloring book beganNear perfect, but somewhere in the middleOf any design something fell awayOr broke apart—the purple running out,The border of the dragon’s belly crossed.Again, the waste. Hours sagging. AfternoonOn gray and mismatched wings.
