Forest

by Anna van Valkenburg

I like to think of you as parallel
to what I already know.

In your classroom, the trees
stand upright like pencils,
their leaves are rolled.

They have memorized the wind
and recite its lines,
they drop conjugations
of the bee’s ceaseless buzz
and the wolf’s howl
like chestnuts. They are versed

in many languages. He who has no birds
for ears, only two sharp tongues for arms,
comes from time to time

to spread black silence. It is
at these great times of need
that the trees stumble,
fall to their knees. Not even Sir
through their once green lips,

not even Amen. It is you
who cuts off their heads, one by one,
with a sharpened ray of sun;

a thorough teacher,
harsh and unforgiving.