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.