The boy arrives home with irregular eggplant shapes on his cheek,
under his right eye,
near his ribs.
All the places that caused him to quiver
and tremble in shame.
The mother clutches her son’s face into her hands,
worried about what occurred at school.
He turns his face away and closes his eyes shut.
“Leave me alone” he yells,
as the boot crushes him to the pavement.
But it is no use.
No one hears his cries for help
on the playground.
They finally leave
when enough blood has been shed.
Drying on that pavement
and painted on their knuckles.


The boy’s bruised face from last week screams
as it is smashed against his locker.
He feels his teeth rattle
as if in a freezer,
as their knuckles connect
with his jaw.
He no longer shields himself
and instead awaits their next move
like in the boxing matches
his father used to take him to.
With a smile on his face,
he dreams of holding his father’s hand again
as he feels his eyes close shut.
Suddenly, he remembers
his mother
weeping in the kitchen...
holding his sister tightly
with the phone limply in one hand
and him being too young,
in the moment,
to understand their tears
as he let his head slump.

The pain finally
subsided.