Stormy PoeticJustice
Boys will be Boys
Three.
James enters every room like a storm.
Dubbed the king of the blocks,
He destroys creations other children are proud of.
Almost instinctively, he knows that
their towers should never be taller than his.
His displays of aggression
made teachers laugh.
Made his father laugh.
James loved when his father laughed,
so he did it again and again and again.
Never mind the other children’s tears.
“This is a problem. We have to do something,”
His mother pleads.
“So he’s a little competitive,” argues his father,
“boys will be boys, ya know?”
“He’s learning to be a man.”
Six.
James dominates the playground.
“That slide and those swings and the sandbox
are all mine!
No one gets a turn unless I say so!”
James rules his tiny kingdom with his fists.
Those who dare to resist
emerge bruised,
sometimes bloody.
Teachers hold conference after conference after conference
to discuss his behavior.
Unfazed, his father responds, “He’s standing up for himself.
What’s the problem?
He’s learning to be a man.”
Eight.
Neighbors start throwing around the word “bully”.
James is a bully.
His frequent arguments with
anyone willing to engage
end with someone tearing them apart.
Fists fly along with obscenities
that would make a sailor blush.
Lip fat, eye swollen,
knuckles scraped and bruised,
he comes home looking like the losing end of a prize fight.
Tearfully, he tries to explain
his failure to his father.
“You’re acting like a little bitch right now!
You have to learn to be a man!
Tomorrow, you take your ass to school
and fuck that kid up!”
James always listened to his father.
Never mind his mother’s warnings.
Thirteen.
It was just a prank.
Someone let him out less than ten minutes
after James locked him in.
It’s not like he died.
No one got hurt.
It was a locker for fuck’s sake.
It has holes.
It’s not like he couldn’t breathe.
James didn’t even hit him
and the kid was crying like a baby.
“What a wimp”, his father said.
“I’m glad I’m not his father.
Fucking crybaby.”
Sixteen.
James is confident in his manhood.
His father has taught him well and
no one has halted his ascent to power.
He sits, legs spread wide enough
to take up three seats.
Never mind the elder that stood
right next to him.
Fuck her.
He was there first.
He no longer takes ‘no’ for an answer.
Just ask the girl
he took to prom.
James is a man.
Never mind the protests.
Never mind the blood.
Twenty-one.
His girlfriend sits on the floor stunned,
tears barely escaping her swollen eyes.
James had never hit her before.
He was so sweet and gentle when they were alone.
But he was not one to be disrespected,
and when her eyes lingered
on the bartender
(a little long for his taste),
he had no choice but to
teach her a lesson.
“I’m no fucking pussy.
I’m a man.
And I won’t take that shit.”
Twenty-five.
He leans forward
to release some of
the pressure
on his too-small frame
caused by the large springs
and thin mattress
that has become his constant perch.
The florescent light from the corridor
casts a shadow
of the prison bars
over his hands and face.
No matter what they do to him,
he never cries.
Never mind the pain.
Boys will be boys.
And James is a man.
8 August 2014