—POOR YOUNG GRANDSON, THERE’S NOTHING I CAN SAY

Fourth Grade

 

We don’t have to 

take our clothes off, 

I can see you all your 

scars and flaws from here, 

halfway across the moon, 

how they pulse beneath 

your skin like a beetle,

as if it was all your fault

though it wasn’t it wasn’t and 

it’s sure not now, so here’s my 

skinny scarecrow frame 

standing in front of you,

by the locker, library, lunchroom 

and backrow bus seat,

ready to take a punch or flame for you.

Let’s hold hands, go home,

skip on the way if we want,

count all the stars and light our own fire,

one that can’t ever be doused.