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.