First Grade Poets

1

First-grade poets

write their names in the top

right-hand corner and smear glue sticks on each line.

I walk in the city and see daring blue roses draped

in drugstore windows

with their petals in cerulean to match

the city, with tall buildings and a wallet and a notebook

for calculus class

because in the end I won’t remember anything but that

I got the grade I wanted.

But I grin

with all the earnestness and chalky optimism my cheeks can muster

because it’s better than sitting tight-lipped

than sitting dry

than dipping one foot off the edge, as you would dabble a toe

in the ocean.

2

No, the batter’s smooth now

She carefully measures and counts

I watch but I can’t see

And my mother says,

Here, have

Acupofteaacookieaspoonfulofsugar

Settle in the outstuffed outdated armchair

Sew and knit, crochet

I did not know you, but I’m sorry to hear,

about losing you at such a young age.

3

The renging skid as wheel hits pavement,

skin my knee, rough my palms, get back on and pedal.

Wind whips ear, pulls hair, cools face, and here I am,

at my father’s pride

in his daughter who can ride her bike.

Splinter coarse in finger, rake against the siding of

the house

Tear inside to bandage wounds,

Sprint out, bare feet slap slap slap on chill cement

Collapse in the plush lake of leaves,

This realm of unawareness

4

A dusty blue spreads the space, misted orange floods

In front of my face is the paper, not dead but alive and thriving

Bake cookies for the bake sale and

Give away the armchair to the fatigued old man and

Know her well

as you walk through the city and

Bang! it isn’t over

So we beat on, boats

Things straighten out as your daughter rides her bike to you and the

house’s siding peels with years

So sit at the tired desk and practice that signature, again again again

As always, in the top right-hand corner.