ERASE

At the red pencil’s end

stands a hard lump of clay.

I do not like its green.

So ugly, its green.

And pointy.

A baby snake’s head.

A thistle’s pricker.

A sick fish,

this green.

My speaking is still in snippets.

I ask Old Anwar,

“What to do with this clump?”

He tries to explain.

“An eraser.”

He shows me how

the baby snake’s head

can fade the red’s bright lines,

leaving smears

on the yellow page,

and green dust in its wake.

“Erase,” he says.

“Why erase?” I ask.

“For mistakes,” he says,

still trying to explain.

Mistakes?

My sparrow

sees no mistakes.

My sparrow sees only what

it sees.

Erase?

To me,

that is the mistake—to erase.