R. T. Smith

ALPHABET

In the sewing room
the mail-order Singer
with its chrome-rimmed
wheel and gleaming needle
was turned under
to make a desk while
mother started dinner

I faced west where
the window shimmered.
For an hour I rehearsed
my letters, spelling
everything visible—
zippers and scissors,
thimbles and spools.
The oval mirror made
the wallpaper zinnias
flower still further,
and a mantel clock
held the minutes back.

The Eagle pencil
in my cramped hand
scratched fishhook
j or l like a needle.
Late sunlight glazed
the holly leaves silver
beyond the peeling sill.
While I squinted hard
at the Blue Horse papers,
the twilight world
held perfectly still.

When I was finished,
each curve and flourish
set in disciplined rows,
fresh tea with ice
appeared at my elbow,
the yellow c of lemon
in the tumbler's perfect o,
and if mother had praise
for what I had done,
I would shine all evening
bright as a straight pin
while the new moon
with its careless serifs
cleared the trees and rose.

(from Messenger, LSU Press, 2001)

READING GROUPS

Five blackbirds sat in the corner circle,
slow with books, Miss Noonan claimed,
Cardinals and Robins crooned
the antics of Dick and prissy Jane
for extra milk and tinfoil stars
while my flock struggled. We read
aloud or doodled. I preferred
Genesis, Grit, The Atlanta Constitution
("Covers Dixie Like the Dew"),
reports of train wrecks,
Lester Maddox, Tech football
and barbecues. Stop that cloud
gathering, her stern voice said.
Her plastic ruler slapped my hand,
but I was elsewhere, wind-borne, flying.
The welt across my palm burned red
as the rose on a blackbird's wing.

(from Messenger, LSU Press, 2001)

R. T. Smith is the author of eleven collections of poetry—including Trespasser and Split the Lark—and a book of short stories. He edits the literary quarterly Shenandoah for Washington and Lee University. His newest book of poems is Brightwood (LSU, 2004).

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