by Alexandra Teague
The carpet in the kindergarten room
was alphabet blocks; all of us fidgeting
on bright, primary letters.
On the shelf
sat that week's inflatable sound.
Theth
was shaped like a tooth.
We sang
about brushing up and down, practiced
exhaling while touching our tongues
to our teeth.
Next week, a puffy U
like an upside-down umbrella; the rest
of the alphabet deflated.
Some days,
we saw parents through the windows
to the hallway sky.
Look, a fat lady,
a boy beside me giggled.
Until then
I'd only known my mother as beautiful.
From:
Mortal Geography
Copyright ©:
2010, Persea Books
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