Poems

CONVERSATION WITH THE BOY IV

This is going nowhere, I mumble
Always has, the boy responds
My feet are wet and cold
My lower back is starting to complain
And I am out of questions

You could always leave
The boy suggests
He stands on the shore
Thin form trembling
As if from cold
But I know it is not so

He is waiting for the next question
The lake glistens
The stones lie in cold dreaming
The boy and I
Sit on the rocky shore
Donning our shoes

I look at the boy
His face thin and vigorous
The way his young hands
Fly with the laces
He feels me looking
And lifts his eyes
An offering, an opening
Do you know the next question?, I ask

No, he replies
The boy looks up
Face of clouds
But I know the answer

Cold spiders run up and down my spine
What is the answer? I ask

Everything, he says
It colors everything

CONVERSATION WITH THE BOY III

The boy stands ankle deep in water
Arms at his side
Not crossed in defiance or
Akimbo in mock entitlement
But limp at his side, dead
I stand by his shoes on the shore
Waiting for him to say something
Acknowledge me
I have been waiting a long time

The lake is dark glass
The water unmoved by
Breath or heartbeat
As dead as any living thing can be

You’re not saying anything, I admonish
Pushing for a reaction
The water reflects my voice
Making it thin
Why is that?, I ask
Another wrong question

I don’t want to be here, he says
And yet here you are, I reply
As are you, the boy retorts
Not turning

I know what you want
My voice is soft, almost hoarse
I want to swim, he admits
His voice softer still
But I don’t know how

Maybe you do, I smile
Giving my voice a hope
I do not feel

He looks over his shoulder at me
Eyes narrowed in derision
Then turns back to the lake
And spits
Ripples riding out from the impact
Dark moving things
Capped with light
Take your shoes off, he says
Turning away
Depriving me of his eyes
Stand next to me

The water is cold, I say
My voice is flat and small
The ripples from the boy’s
Angry expectoration
Barely disturb the shore

Can we go back now?
His voice is softer than breath
Cold as the stony shore
We never left, I reply
Softer still
And bend to untie my shoes

It's been a ratty year
I mean literally, we've had
An unusual number of rats

First one was last June
In the garden
Ruining the tomatoes
I dispatched him in short order
But didn't see it as
A warning of Things to Come

Then in August one got in
Through the air conditioner
(which revolted me)
A dab of peanut butter
Lured him to his demise
And that seemed to be it

But then the other day I went into the attic
To fetch my daughter's sleeping bag
And there was this fat, tawny rat
Gnawing on a candy cane
It had stolen from our Christmas box

I'll be honest; I screamed
In surprise and horror
And only later, after he had
Sauntered back into the shadows
Did I get angry at
All the destruction he had caused:
Shit everywhere
Precious things ruined

That was in mid-November
And for three weeks now
That rat has avoided all traps

He's wilier then most rats

I don't put much stock in the
Ready-made metaphors
Life sometimes hands us
Simple answers are often
Stupid answers, and there's
Confirmation bias
to contend with

But anyway
Like I said
It's been a ratty year

The boy is young
Reads too much science fiction
And thinks he can play forever
He is wrong, of course
There is no forever

The boy straddles the gap between
The wild-footed child and the
Confused teenager
He lives in stereotypes
And thinks he’s a rebel
The truth hides behind him
In his shadow
Waiting for his father to intervene

His father will not intervene
He is blind to the world of shadows
The boy believes in words
And walks where he is put
And thus it begins
The dark side of trust
The yes to questionable things
The following, the giving in
Because it is what it is
And where it leads

The boy was raised as a dog
And now, on the shore of
A teenage sea
He can only dog paddle
Unsure, untrained
Looking for a dry place
The boy is confused, blinded by the salty water
Hoping for someone to call him home
And the call comes
From the wrong home

The boy is ashamed
The boy is burning
The boy whistles in the dark
Afraid of himself
And the howling of the dog within
The boy beats his head against the desk
Flails at the air and at time itself
Goes where he is pointed
And is told it is art

I sit by the boy and listen to
His silence, the droplets of memory
You were young and foolish
And blind and unsupported, I say
And stupid, he adds
It was not your fault, I tell him
It was my choice, the boy replies
And bites his lip until
It bleeds

The boy is sitting by the lake
Pitching stones
A meditative act
I nod, he responds
We walk together

He is afraid
Of something unspoken
Unseen, crushed down
Into a small hole
And covered up

The boy is thin and small
But not starving
Not curled or groveling
He prefers to sit
But will walk in search
Of fear
He walks slowly

I bite my lower lip
And wish I knew how to ask
The question I do not know
Do you dream? I ask
It is the wrong question
Never, he replies
And arcs another stone
Into the water
Still disturbed by the first one

Have you been here long? I ask
Another wrong question
The thin boy smiles
Time is like water, he replies
Another stone flies

He should ask the next question
And he does
Do you love me? he asks
Of course I do, I blurt
Thinking of stones and water

Then why do you come here?
He looks me in the eye
Cool, defiant, unafraid
What do you want?
The same thing you do, I retort
Love
To be wanted, accepted
But not by you

Always by me, he says
I have no response
Always by me, he repeats
Now ask your question

The boy sits down
Facing the lake
Do you dream? I ask
Always, he replies
As I knew he would