Beneath your six foot eight frame
I spy a boy standing on a stool
in a suburban front yard
while his father whips him from behind
for the neighborhood kids to delight in
that proud display of punishment.

I hope there were oak leaves rustling above your head, drowning out the laughter.
I hope there was a strong wind blowing hair back onto their faces, covering their grins.
I understand that noises make homes in our brains forever,
may some beautiful sound find you and provide you new shelter as
I try to forgive the way you introduced me to pain.
I laid on the floor and you kicked it into my stomach.

You couldn't have known
that when you winced at my shape and
declared me unloveable,
you were declaring me a patroness saint
of boys trapped inside of men.
Boys on stools in bars,
boys who fall asleep underneath plastic stars with books on their chests,
dreaming of being better
and never following through.