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 upon 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.
Asleep, my little warrior is mastering his lessons.
That's my boy. Decorated four year old. On the cot
Bewitched, considering his hands, his flesh, my flesh.