mcdaldno

This, a poem I'm writing halfway through the Orton-Gillingham tutoring practicum.

Daily Exercises

I sit across the table from her
and ask her to spell poison.
Her eyes scan mine and my eyes scan
the bruises beneath hers.
For a second, I'm hoping she'll say
You can't spell poison. It doesn't let itself be owned in that way.
Poison isn't something you can write.
It's more the kind of thing that creeps into your room
in the solitude of night -
and takes its name out of your letters.
Poison is composed of nothing but silent e's and broken
spelling rules. Broken homes
probation let's move on to a different word.
P. O. I.
I'm sure she said some other letters too,
but I couldn't hear them.