Boy In Disintegration Loop

WINNER OF THE 2021 PINK POETRY PRIZE

Head on a string, body 

far, far, far below as far 

away from him as far away

can be, for a boy, listening

to wind swishing

and swershing through

clouds as feathery 

as a Christmas beard

in late December. Oh 

where, oh where, is the boy

going? Head so far away 

from earth and school 

and mother and all 

ways of boys, where 

on earth is a voice 

for a boy with his head

on a string? An echo,

at first, an echo from far 

away returning to the boy

as a sister might

after a long visit

from far away. An echo

at first, before clearing

like a bell

the boy’s head

and attracting all birds

to the sound

of the voice, rising

from an echo, a voice

so familiar, so true

it could not be anything

but his own voice

coming to him

at once. At once

his head enlarged

and in doing so

his head floated further 

out, the string

stretching out as far 

as it can stretch, the voice

of the boy ringing

in clouds. In clouds

the boy sang, sang 

all afternoon. The afternoon 

ringing and floating 

along like a lark. Body 

so far, far, far 

away. Away was too far

for his body

to catch up. The boy, 

ais voice returning 

from far away, behind

him, behind him, gone.

Correcting/ My Walk

So hard/ to hear mother’s/ commands. “All good/and true”/ in the world is correct/

as we/ went up/down the hill. Her/ demanding,/ correcting./ “All which is correct,”/

correct beat/ laid out/ by her feet./ “Elbows outs,  open, relaxed”/ as a fact 

can relax/ when its sitting/ on the page. It is. You/ are. Mother, bids,/ corrects.

Love, a measure./ “Less swinging/ like gate. Less/ twirling./ Like with Jenny/ 

in the garage? Trust/ mother to take care/ of every aspect/ that needs/ correction.”

Come through,  voices/ sing, over here, voices/ sing. So hard/ to hear. Commands,/

as we/ went up /down the hill, “Elbows out. Don’t/ swing like a bell,”/ correcting

softness. Come/through. Caught/ one too many times/ in the jewelry/ dish. Magpie/

heart on a chain/hanging around/ the neck. Mother./ To instruct. To correct/

every defect/ in my gait./ Worry wrung/night’s so, so./ So worried that she loved/ 

a what?/ Measuring “this/ this this this”/ to say/ after a stretch/ of block, “correct!” 

Was it/ Wonder/ Woman? Me,  Diana, twirling/ with Jenny/ in the garage? Wonder 

Woman/whipping bullets/back/ by spinning on heels. I could be anyone./ “Correct./

No/ Hoola hips./ No swinging/ like a gate. Elbows in,/ arms out flexing,/ not two tongues/

wagging, going/ on and on.” There’s something wrong.  Something wrong.  Correct,/ 

There’s something wrong/ with my,...there’s something/ wrong./ On the first day no one/ 

at school/ believed I was a boy?/ Was it that? Was it/ teacher/ calling home to correct

mother?/ Mother’s crone? The crone’s crone/ voiceless.  Love must/ adjust and prim/ 

and prime/ up/up/up. I told stories to myself/ when alone. In my head,/ correct./

A mirror?/ A void/ and look/ at what good mother willed/, correct./ Come Christmas, 

Batman/ costumes, Batman/ wings./  A mother loves/ her son enough/ to correct.