UNFOCUSED Poem by Robert Perišić

we start to talk about
primary school essays
for the eighth of March
I always wrote about my mother
and her calloused hands
it was the wrong description
but, I thought you have to write in that style

in my class, she said
there was a motherless boy
so he could write
about whomever he wanted
his aunt, his granny, his . . .

the teacher told him so
she was tactful
even so: he was uncomfortable
he was looking around
unfocused

did he ever write about his mother, I ask
no, she said

I can see him
sitting in his class
and thinking that others are really writing about their mothers

like a lover, daydreaming about those words

and once I thought a poem must be just like that