After the First Couple of Readings of a Poem Over My Head

I keep going back to the poem, to the
blank slate of the poem,
written in black ink, typed firm to the page
I keep going back to the first time you said you loved me,
stamped in my brain
between my name and The Star Spangled Banner.
I memorized the
vibration
of the words, though I don't remember which shirt you wore.
I thought this could be my husband, a thought I usually have
no mind for.
I keep going back to the poem. I find a phrase I don't know - fleshburn brush
Like a scrubbie? An exfoliating puff or a scruffy chin -
She's talking chalkboards,
fields of green
obsolete - ?
like a mind or a field or a big green or black patch
on a wall
All we have now are the those in our mind, your second grade teacher's name neatly printed at the top, if you can find the top through all the
muck and dust
Chalk dust. That was the reson why we changed to whiteboards. Dumb move. Now who will bang the erasers? Now who will sniff the chemical pens -
the fleshburn brushes?
I keep going back to the poem, though for more than this.
But what more is there than this?