Madame Zygansky put ideas in our heads--
that much is true.
But to say that she turned us into what we became,
is to say that one woman can feather the crows,
toss them into the sky,
and turn day into night, like a parlor trick.
wearing ties that your wives switched out this morning
in replacement of your own unfortunate choices--
fall in love with us,
betray those wives.
We were girls born as a lesson in biology,
mailed by our mothers to Madame Zygansky's doorstep,
Arriving as witless nightjars, we underwent a lustration
inside our tiny birdskulls.
Madame Zygansky sent books into our brains like secret police,
and music through us to denounce the gray futures
escaped with every second spent under her tutelage.
Dance with us, detectives.
If you keep your little notepads tucked between your palms and ours,
you may still be able to keep our faces--
and the sound of wing beats--
out of your dreams tonight.
Otherwise, in the morning, you will have to report and jail yourselves,
fondling the bombs we gave you as the trains take you away.
Madame Zygansky put ideas into our heads,
cobalt blue on ivory white, with a few flecks of black.
If she turned us into what we became, we bless her for it--
Only a Gypsy knows how to feather the crows
and toss them into the sky,
her flock alive and aloft, with all directions open.
for Kerry's mini-challenge, and dedicated to teachers everywhere.