Artificial Selection
by Kamau Obasi Lloyd Walker
When I was 7 I almost killed a boy. I mean I held his neck
in my arm and flexed from the back seat, laughing
as he banged against the arm rest, his face red as I laughed
until another boy’s father stopped the car and I let go.
I learned a game called “who can punch the softest?”
I’d win each time because my uncle let me go first.
On his turn he’d leave my lungs with just enough air
to say, “let's play again.” Fetch is an instinct
wolves possess. They play it with ravens
along with tag and whatever else. Most family
is born from some form of hunger.
Since 3 I've sat in the basement with my father
watching men like DMX and Jet Li learn each other
through someone else's blood, all for the sake
of a little girl. I only had to promise
not to repeat their curses. I apologized
to grass whenever I stepped on grass until I was 12.
Even now, sorry occasionally slips from my tongue
like desperate game in the forest. I was always the gentlest child
unless I had a throat beneath my arm. The neighborhood was terrified
of our dogs, bred to be behemoths, despite Thor
not even chasing the robins. He'd rather rest his head
on a thigh. I regret I could not offer mine at his last breath.
I was too busy weeping. Bowing a head
is an invitation to a wolf. I held quiet enough for deer
to walk across my tongue. My parents never struck me,
but I remember how my chest lurched when my father
would look at me and say, “I oughta break your neck.”