ROYGBIV

The shoemaker’s wife ran preschool With a fist made not so much of iron But wire bristles on a wooden brush. She made us recite and learn by rote. Our trick was to mouth words, sound As if we knew what we would one day Come to know, what would dawn On us as sure as a centipede knows What to do with its myriad legs. She made us settle our feet on the mud Floor of her daub and wattle hut and she Wielded a cane cut from wood that bit Into the palm of the hand and left a burn That resonated up the arm for an age After its smart swing and crisp contact. Worst of all was the shoe cupboard Where the old man stored his wire Brushes: a cold, dark, narrow place, Replete with brushes hung on nails Covering every square inch and said To come alive when a child was locked In with them so that they scrubbed Flesh off that child’s bones. She said We would end up there if we did not Concentrate, so we stilled our feet And spoke the words in the right order For colors in a rainbow until the very Thing took her place in front of us Arranged in cuneiform, polished, Brandishing a window to climb out.