Honor
Hollister, the bully, (though if he heard bully
he’d bash your face to hamburger
like crazy people say you can’t say crazy)
upheld honor by beating up anyone
whose eyes met his eyes. If your eyes
lingered long enough to see behind cruel glitter,
you’d get kicked purple for the insult.
Even if you just glanced across his eyes,
he’d glare full on you until you hung your head
and slunk off. If you were lucky. If not,
he’d say “Wutchoolookinat?” and slap-smack
your face six times. “You little faggot!
Disgusting! Sad!” A scarred fist would flex,
clenching and unclenching at his side
as he straddled the fluorescent gleam
that streamed down the linoleum
like a Viking moonpath. “Say it, faggot!
Say it!” he’d say until you’d say “Okay,
I’m a faggot,” and then his minion snorted
with contempt at you, a sorry-ass loser.
But don’t you get me wrong; the generic
“you” I use here wasn’t me. When Tim
put Hollister’s glasses over his penis
and waggled it like a nose, so one dorky kid
couldn’t stifle his giggles when Hollister
stalked back in scowling from the showers,
I was just a watcher. When the kid’s face
slammed against metal lockers, again
and again, so the tiled room boomed
like Shock and Awe while he bawled
and begged, I felt sorrier than anyone.
But what could I do but bear witness,
muted by a sacred code of silence?
he’d bash your face to hamburger
like crazy people say you can’t say crazy)
upheld honor by beating up anyone
whose eyes met his eyes. If your eyes
lingered long enough to see behind cruel glitter,
you’d get kicked purple for the insult.
Even if you just glanced across his eyes,
he’d glare full on you until you hung your head
and slunk off. If you were lucky. If not,
he’d say “Wutchoolookinat?” and slap-smack
your face six times. “You little faggot!
Disgusting! Sad!” A scarred fist would flex,
clenching and unclenching at his side
as he straddled the fluorescent gleam
that streamed down the linoleum
like a Viking moonpath. “Say it, faggot!
Say it!” he’d say until you’d say “Okay,
I’m a faggot,” and then his minion snorted
with contempt at you, a sorry-ass loser.
But don’t you get me wrong; the generic
“you” I use here wasn’t me. When Tim
put Hollister’s glasses over his penis
and waggled it like a nose, so one dorky kid
couldn’t stifle his giggles when Hollister
stalked back in scowling from the showers,
I was just a watcher. When the kid’s face
slammed against metal lockers, again
and again, so the tiled room boomed
like Shock and Awe while he bawled
and begged, I felt sorrier than anyone.
But what could I do but bear witness,
muted by a sacred code of silence?
