Since I have known the cruelty of children,
their soprano voices tight like barbs on wire,
believing that they’d done it wasn’t hard,
not hard to smell the prepubescent sweat,
or guess the strain of shoulders to be wide.
When they asked the boy to follow to the woods
I know the rush they must have felt, like adults
discussing sex or war in front of kids,
I know the boys who wished themselves as tall as fathers,
and felt it, leaning over the slant-eyed kid.
I feel their tongues quick, sliding over words
that sliced when slung down from fathers’ tongues,
they know the thick-tongued smile too well.
I don’t know why the little boy listened,
if they forced him or he chose to remove his clothes
if they helped him with the zipper,
whether the neck hole of the shirt caught on his chin,
whether they reached out to make it easier to remove.
Was there a moment when they felt love,
like mothers soothing tears at bedtime?
Maybe then he tried to say something,
or had to use his wrist to wipe away the tears,
and then they knew he knew
what the only end could be
and they didn’t want to lose their father power
of the clothed over the unclothed.
I don’t know whether the boy who removed
the retarded boy’s underwear and forced
them over his head was the one most scared
of seeing the penis just like his own,
but I do know that his eyes couldn’t watch them,
little boys, running away.
