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

Max embarrasses his father at the altar

Leaping to the communion rail, the boy

thrusts his hands up and giggles to himself.

Some adults behind us think a sweet elf

has come to lighten the service, his joy

at the alter a quality we all

should aspire to. Some think a noisy sprite

has been set loose in the church to make light

of Christ. They look up from their prayers appalled.

But he’s my son. He’s hardly innocent,

but not possessed. He’s a potential man

bumbling through his journey to the sacred.

He’s a child, and I know he never meant

to humor or entertain. Yet his small hands

hold the Host carelessly as I turn red.

Holding Water

You wonder if the fight is worth

the trouble. And even when you

win, you know as sure as the earth

has cracks, tomorrow is a new

day for old battles. Victory

is a word for kids and old men.

Their stories hurt no history.

You, however, are steeped in sin.

Yet your grandfather has a voice

that wraps its truth in soft fingers.

And your son listens with a heart

that doesn’t think of fear or choice.

You are the vessel that lingers
between old ends and a new start.