the hand i was dealt

i knew you in halls and tawdry yellow gloss
of first school days ashen sky of recess
before i understood words like queer sissy faggot
bruiser too cool for smarts while i failed
to comprehend the history of our transaction:
fathers conferring failure upon sons and sons
transmitting futility to other sons of living
up to our dicks repugnance of thinking
another boy had anything for you the hand
withdrawn the other lad forever backing away
smiling you spat the words of our estrangement
before realising i had made some kind of choice
i might say the clock and personal witness
have only vindicated me though what to make
of your clammy paw priming my languid manhood
under god’s cold mercury vapor angels
in parking lot of cruise park and rest
stop i could not begin to say

 

Outcast

When I watch television documentaries
about sociopaths, kept in basements
with mildewed mattresses and converted
appliances I think, “How could you save them?
How could they help themselves after that?“

But it all collapses when I remember
Jimmy. Even though his father made him
strip before hitting him, even though his folks
were kids themselves when he came along.

Jimmy lived next door and invited me
over but I never considered it.
Most boys didn’t get me anyway, and he’d
take swipes at my manhood. It’s easy
to love a criminal when you see James Dean

or Matt Dillon or River Phoenix with a smoke
and cool jacket. Misunderstood. Too ignorant
not to say what everyone’s thinking.
Swinging furiously between the poles
of : dont you like me and fuck off.

But beautiful, reddish-blonde Jimmy, grubby
and arrogant, wanted you to follow him
to the woods and do something
unforgettable and awful. Like he knew you
wanted that. He befriended a dowager hermit

in a frail wooden mansion. Surrounded by
tomcat familiars, she brewed Hibiscus tea
and taught him the violin. We laughed
when the paper said he’d lost his only
consort in a fire. Too easy to imagine him

punishing her because she was cross,
or had had enough or failed some test.
I was 13 when I passed on a family
reunion to stay home and spend
the afternoon at the movies.

When I came back home to swarms
of cops and fire engines, the conical,
black and green trees ignited
behind my house. How the sparks
must have fluttered and spun
in the grimy winter wind.

 

© 2007 Christopher Stephen Soden - Contributor's Bio