For some people I suppose distraction is a respite
From life’s hundred million enigmas they daily fight-
Or-flight or, finally, try to crack
The codes to. And, sure, I feel that.
But for me it’s the reason I first felt self-hate so hard
I saw a window not as a thousand painful shards
But as a way out—I was only six.
And then seven and then eight. The books
Of my classmates grew fatter and fatter
By the day. In the back, I chewed on the word shattered
Afraid to death of being asked to read the blackboard.
I simply couldn’t learn to make its white words
Make meaning in my mouth. Does it make some sense now
Why in those years I would have smiled at anyone who
Held my shaking head nice and solid against the yawning tip
Of something hard and cold that promised to have ended the thing
I knew I was? Even if it was my own mother. Don’t show her
This poem—did you really think that in my despair I never asked her
To do just that? Who cares if I could name more dinosaurs
Than anyone else in my class? What mattered more—
And not just to me, to everyone—the big box I couldn’t check
Was clear: I couldn’t read a word any bigger or better than T-Rex.
Zachary Bond holds degrees from Vassar College and UMass-Boston. He lives and writes in Somerville, MA.
VAGABOND CITY 