Dyslexia

Tenderly,

I remember my second grade reading group

the yellow birds.

In a dream

I see us sitting on a low riser—

the first row of audience participation

reserved for special readers.

I watch the alphabet parade—

26 letters march by

changing before my eyes

into limitless permutations

present within pigments

of color. You know those plastic

magnetic letters that children play

with on refrigerator doors?

Letters feel like that to me—

like I can stick them on my forehead and move them into various spaces of play right there above my eyes. I see the alphabet as 26 pieces of energy each one a bit different from the other. Never do I see these individual characters as part of a stationary whole—where spelling rules immobilize the dance of letters during communication of print to reader. The re-arrangement of letters is not only what I see, it is what I want to see. I suppose, this sifts down to sensation rather than a literal translation of word on printed page.