There is a man who comes into your room
and punches you in the face every time you
smile. If it's dark, he leaves it dark. If it's
light, he complains of the smell. He never
sleeps, or perhaps he always sleeps except
when he clomps up the stairs, yanks
the door open, and shares his closed-bud flower.
The few teeth you have remaining taste
like iron and rot, though you can't afford
to have them capped. Now say he doesn't hear
the furtive creak of parting lips, but rather
you've got a perfect, delicate string, woven
from the baby hair of your most fervent hopes
tied to your finger, connected to a thin
silver bell, and every time you feel joy surge
within your face, you twitch that finger, pulling
the cat's tail, summoning the beige bringer of fists.
Maybe you feel rage each time he punches. Maybe
you believe it's his will, it's your fault (you did
ring the bell, after all). Maybe you plot
that you'll forego all joy, shed all appeal,
and can't help but smile at the thought of it ending.
I wonder if you're dead and buried in a short
coffin, beef-jerky muscles wasted on meth
and misanthropy, daddy's money long spent.
Was the aroma of Ben Gay and rot in the air
while all the ex-footballers cum used car
salesmen wept quietly in their hand-
kerchiefs thinking about the glory days? I wonder
if your cheerleader wife stayed when you lost
your hair. When you got inside her, was there
anything there? Did you even win your blond
medal? What a waste you were. Timmy,
you hated me because I saw through you
to the void where your soul should've been,
and I knew, no matter how fast you ran,
you'd never outpace it. But all I had to do was wait
to get past you. Timmy, I hated you because you ruled
the world from the inside, because you always won
even when you needed to learn how to lose.
What were those boys doing in your room
at Elkton Hills that could drive you
to jump from the window? You had
to know those stone steps led only
one way. Nancy-boy in a borrowed
sweater, broken body no one but Mr. Antolini,
the old drunk idealist, would touch. Privilege
is never punished for maintaining itself.
Did you know one of those boys, ex-governor
of Massachusetts, would run for president?
He was from a different school, but they were
the same steps that were soft, only, for him
and his. Governor's son, he saw a boy with long
blonde hair, led a mob to hold the boy down
and took scissors to him. He saw a whole country
of long-haired sweater-borrowers and raised a mob
to hold them down while he cut. James, did you see
that coming? Is that why you jumped?
CL Bledsoe is the author of the young adult novel Sunlight; three poetry collections, _____(Want/Need), Anthem, and Leap Year; and a short story collection called Naming the Animals as well as five forthcoming books. A poetry chapbook, Goodbye to Noise, is available online at Right Hand Pointing. Another, The Man Who Killed Himself in My Bathroom, is available at Ten Pages Press. He's been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times. He blogs at Murder Your Darlings. CL has written reviews for The Hollins Critic, The Arkansas Review, American Book Review, Prick of the Spindle, The Pedestal Magazine, and elsewhere. CL lives with his wife and daughter in Maryland.
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