USA

otherpoet@msn.com

Drawing An Equation

And so it begins in kindergarten when
she tells us to color the grass in -
after all day waiting a lifetime for my turn -

sick to death of math and the repetitious
calculation of goldfish units per set - drudgingly
penciling 4, 4, 4 for how many perfect

triangle pieces of pie inside the circle -
the whole time trying to sit completely
still and silent, listening for my name -

this is when - my name is called -
finally. Finally! Something begins.
Joy! I have permission to abandon

the beige chair I cannot stand
sitting down in. It's my turn to join them!
To color the grass in! To draw on the brown paper

whole-class mural in a space reserved strictly
for me and my version of landscape. I am five.
And I know things. I know things

I don't know I know - and make the beige chair
disappear. I show what exactly I see and so
when the crayon in my hand strikes paper

the paper so clearly becomes a field -
I swear - the mural disappears. The walls
burst into blue air - the day is a color,

the clock is the sun - it is summer -
and I am under a huge weeping tree, painting.
I am pouring all of me into the grass I am

coloring in until the teacher - rushing
in horror - plucks the giant
green crayon from my hand - loudly - with an ugh -

and an urgent shove to sit back down. I don't
understand. What am I? Blind? I am unable to find
the ruin I have created. I must be stupid to be

so baffled about why there are no buts
about it - I must sit down. Right Now. To salvage
the landscape - someone with more sense

must scribble quickly to cover my disaster.
To have the mural hang on display
each blade of grass must face in only one

direction from end to end - the grass must blend -
each patch must lie down on its side and pretend
to sleep. And I must sit down. Without another

word about it. I must put my head
in my arms on the desk and allow, and accept,
then forget this moment I put my head

where my heart belongs for the sake of her art.
I can't help but see red. If I breathe, I will cry.
But I cannot cry for if I do it will be to insist

on grass preservation - the manifestation
of each individual's vision of what grass is.
And I may not speak - or cry or sing to defend

my grass from its destruction. I must sit down
without one passionate sound or opinion.
I must put my head in the dark of my arms

on the desk and draw my joy back in to wrestle
the severe spirit of vengeance wholly entering
my half-asleep dream. I won't say what I see -

but briefly infected - I sense something fierce
and wicked and frightening inside me. And so -
where one thing ends, another begins.

This poem first appeared in the chapbook
ALMOST ALL RED published by Stillwaters Press.

© Copyright, Marylisa Dedomenicis.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.