ALPHABET

The child sat on one side of the table in the kitchen,
The mother on the other,
Her whole face round and blank, like a zero,
Her two eyes blank slots of a pinball machine.

The child's arm was her handle, thin as a chicken's.
Whenever she moved it, the long row of images
Began moving and rolling, first slowly, then racing,
In the slot machine eyes.

The mother's housedress looked innocent,
Covered with kittens, eyes boggled above whiskers,
Worn by the iron, frayed by the bleach,
Ties tight at the waist,

But at the wrong answers, they could turn
Lions and tigers, giving their growls.
This was a gamble; the child knew it well.
This was the lesson called homework.

The child wanted to draw an a.
It was fat, like a kitten, rump in the air,
Paws tucked under, trailing its tail.
It was sweet, like the tadpoles that turned into frogs;

It was friendly, like a mouse standing up for a talk,
A nice little apple, threaded with stem.
She would draw it in all 48 colors from her Crayola box.
The white paper was as ready to receive it
As a sheet in a crib.

She was as hopeful as a birthday.
She told her mother what she wanted.
The mother picked up a pencil; she had pared it
Like an apple with the sharpest of knives.

Without hesitation, she drew it: A.
The child shook her head.
This was not what she wanted.
There it stood, legs spread apart,

Arms across its chest, breastless, no curves at all,
Wearing the pointed hat of a dunce, or a witch,
Or a soldier.
It was all disapproving, a teepee, barred at the door.

Its feet dug into the earth
Like two spikes of pencils. It wasn't going anywhere.
It would be insulted in white.
It would look silly in yellow.

The child shook her head. She tried hard explaining.
The mother lurched across the table,
Grabbing her hand. She grabbed it so hard
She broke the crayon in two, cerulean blue.

Hand on hand, she forced the child to draw an A
With the stub.
The child screamed; she tore up the paper.
The mother pinned her down; she gave her another sheet

Blanker than the window square watching.
She gave her the crayon called aquamarine.
The child was still and ugly as a toad.
The mother conjured up meals disappearing.

They were sliding back into the oven, the vacuum of time,
The child's own bones stacked in a box like the crayons.
The child tried to draw it again, her favorite letter.
She couldn't quite get it, its head open and gashed.

She started to cry. The mother slapped her, leaving two marks.
They had taken the locks from the bathroom and bedroom.
There was nowhere to hide.
The mother picked up a hanger, and began beating her, hard.

The child cried for hours.
She saw the pots, hanging on the nails like helmets,
Handles handy for twisting off enemies' heads.
She saw the long shiny knives, and the long fork

With two fangs. She saw the supper, like Snow White,
Behind the glass case. She gave up.
She took her black crayon and drew it: A.
The mother's eyes started whirling and clacking,

Reels of fruit flashing, also skulls and white crossbones,
And solid gold stars. She opened her mouth,
Coins poured out in rivers, all silver, and out of her ears.
When they hit the floor, they melted like ice.

When the child looked at her hand
She could see every blue vein in it.
They all wove into letters, as if embroidered in thread.
She kept seeing her mother covered with knives,
Her Christmas orange, punctured with cloves.

Of course, said the mother,
Picking up a napkin and a piece of crayon,
There is also this kind: and she drew it: a.
The child lowered her head onto the table,

Right onto her plate, a spoon by one ear,
A knife and fork by the other.
The vertebrae on her neck showed through quite clearly.
If you knew how to count, you could count them.

This was the first lesson.
There would be 26 more.