At the Remembrance on the Last Day of Eighth Grade at Springvale Middle School
by Olin Henry Rhoads
I wish you could bisect or even trisect
me in order to dissect and excise
this minuscule throbbing
underneath my left ventricle
like I am the red nosed
operation clown and hot
dogs rest in my chest cavity
and only your hands
with the sharp purple gloss
on your hard-bitten nails
can twist them out of me.
I promise I won’t scream
in pain like the scream
your mother made when
I rode the purple tricycle
through the screen
and shattered the pane
and my parents made me pay
two allowances worth
of the Baptist Health
Center bills and I still
have two long scars
like train tracks
on my forearm.
I think I found one
of your rings that shot
under the radiator
during an under-
the-dining-room-table
wrestling match when
you refused to release
your claw thumb
from around my eye
socket and threatened
to pop it right out.
I remember when I dropped
to one knee in a pretend
celebration of our union
because nobody thought
that marrying eight-year-olds
was inappropriate and slid
a lime playdoh ring
as CD organ music
gargled through an oval
boombox and how I wish
I could mold a spectral ring
in case we meet again.
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