Childhood Ideogram

I lay my head sideways on the desk,
My fingers interlocked under my cheekbones, 
My eyes closed. It was a three-room schoolhouse, 
White, with a small bell tower, an oak tree. 
From where I sat, on still days, I’d watch 
The oak, the prisoner of that sky, or read 
The desk carved with adults’ names: Marietta 
Martin, Truman Finnell, Marjorie Elm; 
The wood hacked or lovingly hollowed, the flies 
Settling on the obsolete & built-in inkwells. 
I remember, tonight, only details, how 
Mrs. Avery, now gone, was standing then 
In her beige dress, its quiet, gazelle print 
Still dark with lines of perspiration from 
The day before; how Gracie Chin had just 
Shown me how to draw, with chalk, a Chinese 
Ideogram. Where did she go, white thigh 
With one still freckle, lost in silk?
No one would say for sure, so that I’d know, 
So that all shapes, for days after, seemed 
Brushstrokes in Chinese: countries on maps 
That shifted, changed colors, or disappeared: 
Lithuania, Prussia, Bessarabia;
The numbers four & seven; the question mark. 
That year, I ate almost nothing.
I thought my parents weren’t my real parents, 
I thought there’d been some terrible mistake. 
At recess I would sit alone, seeing
In the print of each leaf shadow, an ideogram—
Still, indecipherable, beneath the green sound 
The bell still made, even after it had faded, 
When the dust-covered leaves of the oak tree 
Quivered, slightly, if I looked up in time.
And my father, so distant in those days,
Where did he go, that autumn, when he chose 
The chaste, faint ideogram of ash, & I had
To leave him there, white bones in a puzzle 
By a plum tree, the sun rising over
The Sierras? It is not Chinese, but English—
When the past tense, when you first learn to use it 
As a child, throws all the verbs in the language 
Into the long, flat shade of houses you
Ride past, & into town. Your father’s driving.
On winter evenings, the lights would come on earlier. 
People would be shopping for Christmas. Each hand, 
With the one whorl of its fingerprints, with twenty 
Delicate bones inside it, reaching up
To touch some bolt of cloth, or choose a gift, 
A little different from any other hand.
You know how the past tense turns a sentence dark, 
But leaves names, lovers, places showing through: 
Gracie Chin, my father, Lithuania;
A beige dress where dark gazelles hold still? 
Outside, it’s snowing, cold, & a New Year. 
The trees & streets are turning white.
I always thought he would come back like this. 
I always thought he wouldn’t dare be seen.