His
Flesh, My Flesh
My son was taken to the Principal
today. Twice.
His fists beat upon a boy. Later, another boy.
One blocked his view of a storybook.
The other wanted back a toy he had
grabbed away.
An Incident Report is written up. I am called.
In the office, he feigns sleep on his
preschool cot.
Not a single toy. Just his hands curled up near his eyes.
His terrible loneliness is redeemable in
my loneliness.
His flawless face belies my shadowy
insides.
His guts and mine fuse in the torso of solemnity.
We bestow upon our children the haunt of
ourselves.
I have given him weapons and the words
to load into them.
I have taught him aim, camouflage, how
to dig trenches.
I have shown him how to view others as
the enemy.
Our wounds scar before their accidents;
they become us.
That’s my boy. On the cot, bewitched, considering his hands,
His flesh, my flesh.
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