By Rote
An oak tag string of ABCs
Block style hangs above the blackboard.
Chalk dust tinges the letters of the law.
Diligently, a small girl copies
Each letter, large and small.
Forty first-graders squirm. One teacher silences
Giggles and groans. In her navy dress and
Hushful orange Keds, she pads the perimeter.
Immersed in the alphabet, the girl ignores
Jeffrey Wheeler, who twirls his Cub Scout ring and daydreams of
Kissing her at recess. She daydreams, too:
“Look at my ABCs, Mrs. Delaney —”
“— Mommy, look at me!”
No recess today, outdoor or indoor.
Ohio’s autumn raindrops ping the windows.
“Perfect,” the child thinks, “Look at my big
Q with its curly tail!” The teacher
Runs her finger along the child’s handiwork
Stolidly: A second-hand ticks one thunderous tock.
“Tell me what you think of me!” entreats the child’s heart.
“U’s must not dip below the solid line.” The teacher’s
Voice descends and drowns the sound of rain.
With an urgency she does not understand,
X,x, X,x — the child grips the fat
Yellow pencil. From A to
Z, a to z, again, again, again.