The mysterious boy withoutparents has a gash in his purpleface & out of it unfolds an escalatorof primitive idiom at which we grimacewith involutant ribcages.
Is there equal opposite contractionwithin the boy's wingèd brain halves,does his blood backward-somersaulttoward a green lake & sand pail& a set of soft arms to catch him?
My child is confined to his room untilalgebra adheres to the cartiliginousdiffidence dumb teachers calculate(wrongly) will form rarely if a kidfeels valued & encouraged, fed lasagna.
Rebellion is a recipe of reciprocalterrorism that opera reveres asrealism. Cleave away from love'ssuffocation if you know love, surelystrike your mother's wrist from your temple.
My son carries a coffee to my bedside& I thank him. Back from enemycamp my mask is skin, lightly wrinkled.We'll not embrace with the darling adagioshe received as a toddler, but unwordedly, salute.
Then I can't not hug him, & make referenceto the street kid who sat in urine with his pinaforedpitbull, dog collar spiking his own throat.My son draws back, bares teeth, streams a hiss:I get why he's out there. Think of the freedom, man.
