The ruler left a welted stripe;
the hand and belt, raised letters

I could read. My desk held
parchment, paint, and mucilage,

its lid a face for stenciling—
how ink would fill the ridge compressed

in wood—those cells—compressed
for good—my own, what I was beaten for.

I never learned to play the violin.
I never learned what I was beaten for.

At Easter brushing watercolor on crayon—
what soaked into the egg’s white skin

and what resisted—beading there—
It’s possible to envy wax.

Sometimes I drew around the mark.
The red would fade, the blue would stay.

Blue shape, blue flower
yellow took. Then everything went in.