Spelling Tests

poem

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

I wrote this poem almost a year ago, thinking about the things we used to do in school, and why we become good at certain things. I always liked it, but never shared it. Until now. It’s been reworked somewhat for publication, but the essence is the same.

Spelling Tests

I was always the best at spelling. Ten
out of ten, top of the class, full marks
and a gold star, the King of Words.
Refrigerator, incorporated, separate –
I could reel them off like facts.
There was something comforting about all the letters
in their correct, immutable order, carved
into the paper, each one a flag planted in the dirt.
I had a knack for it. When you’re swimming in chaos
you’ll cling to anything. It was
my life raft, floating in the homogenous sea
of the family, and I knew that words
could be used against you, so I set out
to master them. I became that most quiet
of horrors: a writer. I thought language was
a monument, fixed, impervious
to corruption. How wrong I was.
But with every curve of the pencil
I was writing my own story, vital
and distinct, I would turn their phonemes
back against them, I would show them
what was what, how much better
I knew. I found the blank page, that impossible
wilderness, that virgin forest, land
of opportunity, tabula rasa, dark massif.
I’m still trying to find my way back.

---