Reverse Erasure

Reverse Erasure 

“No,” they say,
over and over,
the words striking the desks,
pencils trembling
against the wood grain,
paper edges lifting
in small, uneven breaths.

They listen
to the fluorescent tubes
stutter out,
metal carts tipping
and skidding across tile,
desks jolting,
their legs scraping
against others
in short, irregular bursts,
the walls splitting—
plaster dust falling
in thin, vertical lines.

They close their eyes,
their pencils dropping
and rolling away 
from their feet,

Before the teacher 
can return the papers,
they start erasing her
limb by limb.

“Mama, mama, mine.”
they drone in low whispers.

The teacher starts to hand back the assignment:
full of leaden silhouettes—
their mothers pressed into the paper’s pulp.

The children, 
their heads pressed over the desks,
fists pressing down hard on pencils,
are creating—
more smudges than white space.

We’re drawing you,” they say.
their pencils working 
her outline into the margins.

She enters,
papers with graphite grades
over rubber dust in her arms.