my fourth-grade son isn’t learning math, the proper way, the rote way,
by memorizing tables, like he did as a child. A ruler to the wrist.
Over and again. I tell him the nearest gun store is 2.3 miles from
where my son is erasing a mistake, from where he is subtracting
the number of bullets emptied in sixty seconds, minus how many
times the heart beats in that frame, minus how many children can
fill a supply closet. Then add how many days it takes for a parent
to lose the sound of their child’s voice from memory (Less than you
think). My son, who is schooled in divergent thinking, recognizes x
as a murder of crows, an unkindness of ravens—a funeral in the sky.
I tell my father—the old way isn’t working. He agrees, but then slips
back into criticizing, into the path he’s worn down, until again it rains.
Memorization as barbed wire, is tough to break, and when pulled
from a pocket of empty prayers, is circular reasoning, which is
without hope, which is the very definition of insane.
Megan Merchant lives in the tall pines of Prescott, AZ. She is the author of two full-length poetry collections: Gravel Ghosts (Glass Lyre Press, 2016), The Dark’s Humming (2015 Lyrebird Award Winner, Glass Lyre Press, 2017), four chapbooks, and a forthcoming children’s book with Philomel Books. She was awarded the 2016-2017 COG Literary Award, judged by Juan Felipe Herrera. She is an Editor at The Comstock Review.
Photo by Renato Ribeiro Silva.
