Incorrect Whales

The sea, in my story,

is a vast, deep, curving thing.

But the image catches, stops me,

and makes my fingers sting.

Mrs. Davison, fifth grade,

her glasses sharp and small.

'Your whales,' she said, 'are quite wrong.'

I still recall

the sound of that. Her voice

like thin ice, hard and cold.

Anatomically incorrect,

something she'd been told.

I tore the drawing then,

the blue crayon, a faint hue.

Rough edges, bits of paper,

what was I supposed to do?

My whales, in all their wrongness,

now just a memory's sting.

I don't draw them anymore.

I don't draw anything.