Poem against the Instructor of Writing

Carl Peterson

[from For Anna Akhmatova and Other Poems (Ithaca: Ithaca House, 1977), p. 34]

POEM AGAINST THE INSTRUCTOR OF WRITING
Your forehead is the color of wild roses
blooming haphazardly in the dogbush.
The plowman turning the field of your brain
wipes his face with a reptilian cloth.
Only the young me with no memories
salute you. They ask to feed a time
off your moisture. They flutter in your net.
I remember the day your shadow fell
across the wild roses and they wilted.
The hush of trees passed over everything
like a blind thief. My fear
begs you to return at least the roses.

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