Why I Won't Write About the Boy


After we killed the boy, he was no longer a boy,

his rough hair a metaphor for childhood.

Fatherless, we’re sure. Eyes blank like a squid’s.


No—leave the boy’s skin inkless

because no one else will.

Huffington Post is writing about the boy.

Our great aunts are Facebooking about the boy.

Everyone has something to say about the boy

and somewhere, someone is writing

about writing about the boy.


Those who write about the boy say that boys

cause hearing loss, that boys have a life

expectancy of brief. I cannot write about

the boy because the boy cannot

write about the boy. The boy cannot

say that he is constantly growing

out of clothes. That he’s never

seen a kite before. That his fingers lie

in knots as a litany of nots.


I refuse to write about the boy. I refuse

to write about the boy. I refuse to write

about the boy because if I do,

someone will write about me.