Now the drawbridge lifts, boyhood left
diddling Legos on the other side. Now
Hun-like hormones start their thundering
ride. Studying puberty at school,
he thought he was immune, voice still
shrill as a girl’s. Now—soon!—sweaty
armpit-and-crotch-trolls will turn their cranks
and squeeze out hair. Soon seeds of life
will spurt at night. The signal-fires
girls burn on hills he laughed at last year
will enflame his brain. Soon every car
will hiss, “Drive me,” as foremen-cells yell,
“Stretch! Swell! Grow!” and pitch’s
paratroops plunge from his voice-box,
down. Stalled at the Chest / Breast crossroads,
mammary glands cry, “Which way?”
Soon my son will say, in a full baritone,
“Pass the pasta, please,” meaning, “Pass
your beaten-downness into my huge, hairy
hands.”
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.
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