hard scrabble taught
small as the properly poor,
it is a shame how she looked
like a dead moth spread winged,
taped to a piece of wax paper,
taken to school and pinned down.
festered in a blue black
skin, those few visible examples
of the love thrown at her unwashed.
nobody, but nobody would plan
to spill so much in so small a space,
but she did, with a fog in her eye
as she did it, and as hard as i wanted to try,
i couldn’t make eye contact.
what came next was what
she remembered to pack, along with some
missing skin. i wished it were mine.
i’d gladly take it upon me, and she could
be scot free pretending to be
any number of wild things.
but she sat with me,
frozen backward looking,
explaining with awkward words
and punctured theme,
as i wrote fresh notes for god, like clean snow.
nothing prepared me for the sudden absence,
the dead moth freed of the unpinned wax paper.
as i cleaned the spill with long forms and reports
i was grateful i tried to look in her eyes.
tired in the moment to be there still,
one man choosing to pray.
