I knocked Jake Brown
to the ground
in eighth grade, kept him there
with words, Get up, retard. A man
is born strong. I dare
you. A boy is meant to stand up.
But Jake wouldn’t. My son Brendan
won’t. Day after day. It hurts to see him
stuck. The report branded
him retarded, slow, stunted,
delayed. Waves of words. In water
I make him
new. Rub spasms
from his back. Come on, Brendan.
Help me. Flat
on his belly, he hugs
the shower’s tiled ground. Ripples
the white curtain. No blood
this time. Just clear streams pearling. I keep
fit. Lift weights so I can lift
him. Kneeling, I raise him slow. Why can’t you
do this on your own? Soap-slick bird,
my six-year-old boy slips
through my hands. Can you do anything right,
just this once?
Jake’s eyes crossed behind bifocals,
he’d fumbled
my pinpoint pass, tripped
at the rim. My boy stays smaller
than other boys. Still it hurts
to lower myself
to him. I need
more strength. Are you
an idiot? Words foam
inside. My son looks
away, water streaks
his face, washes
away tears, his mouth
bitter with Dove suds, words
that never roll off
his tongue. Sissy. Jake lost us
the game. You play
like a girl. Behind the veil
our shadows. In steam I tell myself
words cannot hurt, droplets
soothe my mouth, run down my chest
onto Brendan’s back.
Four years ago, I told the doctor,
my voice raised, Don’t use
that word. The shower stream grows
cold, I am naked
and shivering. Stupid boy.
I want to believe
in him. It was just
a report. Jake’s bifocals cracked,
he pissed
his Toughskins. Moron. More than
a word. Sprawled like Jake
on pavement, my son spreads out
his arms, little wings
spanning the damp
expanse. My feet sank
into wet grass. Jake ran from us,
sandy hair whipping
his freckles. Sorry, Daddy
doesn’t mean it when he yells.
Because he’s my boy,
it’s my fault. I need new
words. Broken bird. Fierce
starling. My hands pat him dry, smooth
his hair. It shines
like feathers. One skinny leg
kicks out.
His hands search
the wall,
push me away
to lift off alone,
stand up to me
just this once.