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This is not about
Inner cities'
Multicolored
Multicultural
Murals.
Nor
Paint marker scrawl
As boxcars crawl
Cross-country on
Rustic rusty iron,
Crumbly wood.
It's about one white word
Big as life
Sprayed cross
The blacktop
Of a figure eight subdivision
In front of the
Last house on the left,
Across from an empty lot,
Leaving no doubt
In the rural South
At noon
On May 24, 1992
Six letters, starts with
F, ends in T.
Crossword clue:
The word he has heard
Whispered
Chanted
Shouted
Every day of his life
At home and
School,
Somehow too quiet
For a teacher to hear.
He, the ugly boy?
The fat boy?
The one who
Talks like a girl,
Throws like a girl,
Cries like a girl,
Might as well BE a girl.
But girls don't get treated this way,
Except when they do,
When their femininity
Like his masculinity
Cannot attain conformity.
That ugly boy,
That fat boy,
Who is not quite a boy,
Is scrubbing
Scrubbing
Scrubbing.
On all fours now,
Asphalt attacks
Palms, knees.
Merciless sun
Blistering his neck,
Lip split
Knot swelling
Behind the ear.
A large hard
Bristle
Brush
No match for Krylon.
He has no solvents
No solution to
Melt the word.
If you didn't act that way.
Cars come to the end of the block
Pass him by and turn right.
He doesn't look up.
He wishes for nothing
More nor less
Than a crash
To set his soul free,
To knock his body under
Sweet sickly shade of
Magnolia tree.
It is the Sunday
After his high school
Graduation,
Fresh from church
Convocation.
A fool to think,
Two days before,
He had escaped
This word,
White and implacable.
It's not coming off
It won't budge
Nor flake.
The blood
Snot
Spit
Tears
Drip from his face
Mix with the paint.
Fantasize:
The mixture is
Magic.
Visualize:
The odious
Word
Evaporating off the street
The way the rain does
On a day like this,
Off of the pavement
Out of his ears
Not just for today
But all the days of his life.
Quite lost in the fantasy,
Dreams of wearing
A vibrant caftan
Dancing free
Among lovely people,
Who smile
Hug
Celebrate.
Lost as he gets,
He is more than
Disoriented
When he awakes,
Later,
Head sore
In cool, air conditioned
Clinical light.
Seventeen year old male, suffering from severe sunburn, dehydration, abrasions noted
On the palms and both patellas.
Occipital Hematoma may indicate
Concussion.
How did you say this happened, Sir?
Fell off his bike.
Y'know, kids these days…
Voice trails off.
Awkward silence.
The last time he'd
Fallen off his bike
He was thirteen.
Put the beastly thing
In the garage then
And never saw it since.
Oh look now,
He's come round.
Is that right,
You fell off your bike?
Suspicious sad eyes
Try to probe his soul.
A simple nod,
Silence,
Consent to the lie.
It is pointless
Exhausting
To tell the truth.
A lesson learned
Several times.
His eyes close, he
Hopes to slip away,
But no,
He's stuck here today.
Extra strength Tylenol
Prescribed.
A few fronds
Of aloe vera
Sacrificed.
That night
Someone paints over
The word,
Black paint
On the black street
The blacks don't quite match but rather
Betray
The shape
Of the letters.
Monday morning
The brutality of
The word remains,
Ghostly yet
Real:
FAGGOT.
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