The words that yellowjacket in
from right field, raise hot welts
on Erik’s brain—words aimed
at him and his friends, who seem
linked to him by invisible skin.
The words sting worse
because the one releasing them
defiles the game-can’t catch,
throw, or hit the small white sun
that Erik orbits night and day.
“Aiden!” he screams, just
like his coaches do. “Get
your head back in the game.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Aiden rages-
unjust as school-yard “monitors”
with their yellow slips and parent
conferences. Still, Erik cages
his temper (hissing, chittering)
until the last out. Then, despite
what grownups say—“Violence
is failure. Violence is wrong”-
when Aiden runs in, clowning,
from where no balls ever go,
Erik kicks open the cage.
Blood-famished, maddened
by restraint, his penned-up anger
bolts for its prey. “Coach!
Help!” Aiden squeals, tries
to run, then, in a puff of dust,
goes down.
-Kid Fight by Charles Harper Webb
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