Now when I see old cane
stiff and leaning off from the wall
of the stalks that thrived, I wonder was this
what the English-speaking teacher
used on my grandparents
when she called on them in words
they couldn't understand to stand?
Eyes can be lowered; what to do
with two-tongued mouths but keep
the one hidden behind the stalk
of the other, hushed under the cane’s
whipped down whistle. Now when I see old cane
I see the frayed cover
of the Cajun dictionary my mother
took out from her drawer only when
no one was looking. I confess
I stole that book, hid it behind
hung dresses, thinking I too
should learn like that, kneeled
behind the dresses
invisible knees
sewn for women who
hold raw cane and the unraveling red
binding of a dictionary
with the same two-handedness.
Thinking it had to be hidden,
which is another way
to forget, so that
when I remembered I too should learn
and went with both hands looking
the big red book
had gone, stolen back
or muttered away
like the seated woman
mouthing two or three
strange words at a time,
repeating herself at the wall.
