Frog

We called it a frog: a knuckle raised above

a tight, thin fist. Rapped quick like a bullet

shot from a weak gun at close range, one hit

on a growing muscle or bone would move

even the meatiest boy to profuse

public tears, embarrassed girls giggling

to hide from the shock of violence swimming,

each stroke paddling one closer to excuse.

I turn my head and it seems the bully

is trying to punch a way out of my neck.

A lump, I sense but cannot feel, saps joy

and marks me, tells my friends and family

today, without reason, I’ll watch my back

and soon the playground will be less one boy.

This poem was originally published in The Resurrectionist