I
boys’ toy
blades made jagged
notched swords
made from BBQ tools
rusted
from sleeping too long
in mud puddles
sharpened stick swords
edged with brown teeth
the echoing laughter
of lawn chaired men
inside
with newly
washed hair
I make beds
and my own boy
I must send
out
to play
the antiqued white sheets
are smelling of freshly
boxed sunshine
- perfectly folded -
pillows placed
diagonally
I wait
till I am called forth
to heal
II
until I
stepped out
of the prim and pretty little box
of freshly laundered inside sunshine
I had prepared
for me
to the world
I had flung my boy.
into a humanity where
cheap sex is gendered
inflated.
coveted.
and where 'love'
is fought for
till it is expended
and then, not-required
-redundant-
-distained-
here are the world’s lessons
for my son.
first to Demean,
and then to
Debase.
III
and so
I am named
Melodrama
for daring to tread
inside of
their fight, my only blade
a small and inadequate
knife.
encircled
in attempts to disgrace
first, my face
slashed
my hair hacked at
my fingers, then
my hands,
are incised - bloodied
for a cause
I can no longer distinguish
done by hands in which I once
felt secure.
IV
until
falling open my hands
and dropping the knife
I reject the fight
absolutely, and
all external definitions
of me
no longer an item for outside blade’s
vivisections, not
a subject for trite objectifications
not to be known by feeble
attempts to pigeon-hole
I discard completely and
no longer conform to
the world’s definition
of me.
the earth is my own, my
home, and my arms, I
now fling open
I am rooted
as myself
unequivocally.
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