Boy

A boy's story, simple and not so sweet.

When I was young,
my father told me
how it was,

jabbing with the square blunts of his fingers,
clenching the metal angle of his jaw.

I learned the language of bruises, the semantics
of power--
of standing toe to toe, taking blows for blows,
exchanging eyes for eyes and teeth
for mouths.

He taught me how to bring
a razor to my face, to keep my hair cut;

how to slit the lawn below my ankles
and love a woman for her legs;

how to grip hands snakelike
and hold stares like drags from cigars--
steady, long.

Before I was eighteen I was all control,
hooking my thumbs in the loops of my jeans
and letting my shoulders roll
when I was uneasy.

"And guns are used for animals," he said one day,
"especially the f*****s-"
pressing his eyes against mine.

And I slipped the crooks
of my fingers into their blue little strips,
spine stiff-





thinking of the pinewood smell
of a man's hair,
the tilt of his lips,
thinking of the liquid ripple of muscle in the sun,
the way his sweat was enough
to make me swallow, and swallow again






and turn my eyes away.

Author's Note

Read this like air would, sticking to it fully, with your entire body and your mouth open wide as a window, your lungs awake, a pair of open eyes.