Literacy

During her sober summers
she made him read every afternoon
until the smug kitchen timer buzzed release.

They had their jobs. She cleaned up the kitchen
while he grudged on at the desk.

Alone at the table
the silence of the house
told her what everyone else would not.

What had she been thinking
when she plastered up the faux-tapestry wallpaper in the kitchen?
No one’s eyes were trumped anymore.

He scanned a grainy page.
He read about reincarnation
and convinced himself he had been a bird,
that summer was built of beige rectangles
that slid and flattened
as his prismatic room floated past the sun,
the light melting like butter into the thick carpet
to oil his path toward the center of the earth—he was an ostrich

who could pretend he was not hiding.
That was part of the job description.

Elizabeth Wyatt