Overgrown tears. Fifteen.
And strangely beautiful.
‘They’re picking on me, Miss -
they’re always doing it’ -
with their sly fingering of his
taut imbalance,
a dirty-nailed fretting at his
festering doubts,
a constant circling of ugly
cowardice,
a prodding, a harsh probing of his
too-thin skin,
squeezing the manhood out of him,
breaking open
crusted despair and infecting a
system clogged
with his hopeless, weeping
inadequacy.
Overgrown tears. Fifteen.
And strangely beautiful.
They have plugged the opening
pores of his spirit
with the filth of his beaten
fear. From his smooth face
the haunted eyes plead for his
scarred, disfigured soul.
(November,
1991)
