In fifth grade, my teacher
pulled me out of class
twice a week
and sat me
behind a machine
to train me how to read
with speed, to cure me
of lingering over language.
I’d lean forward, rest my
forehead on the instrument
while prose scrolled up
the screen at a pre-determined
pace, no matter the story,
eliminating the luxury
of contemplation
or daydreams,
any possibility
of poetry in my mind.
Haste made letters
loitering
near margins
dispensable.
And black blocks
emerging from the system
censored expressions
deemed insignificant,
muting the words’ music—
their violins and flutes—
so the main idea
lodged in my concentration.
I was supposed
to comprehend something
akin to meaning
by ignoring every ostensible
sign I saw that said,
Imagine that.