it takes a village to raise a child:
to rub the rust from years of wear,
to teach him not to cower in the face of adversity
when the other boys come around with bats aimed at his limbs.
he must be led back to mother’s house;
she will take one look at his pouting lip, trembling gateway
to his muted mouth,
and she as well as the others will move mountains
to see him smile again, dimples and all.
perhaps he will not zip around the house as he used to,
as a young monkey swinging through the jungle;
but he will learn to find the forms of nebulae in his plum-bruises,
and he will learn that there is more to strength than a strong arm—
*there is more to fighting back than striking like a hammer.