Your Glance, Like a Clouded Moon
The boy was not involved, but knew
what was wrong and what was needed;
they had been clearly stated
by the father, the mother’s tears
like filigree around a sacred page.
So while the girl was on the phone
with her boyfriend, a gentle student,
discussing how she would leave, where they would meet,
how little she could bring, where they would hide,
her brother sat, no more distractedly
than usual, in class, where what was taught
was unimportant. And while the father,
an uncle and two cousins
entered the girl’s room,
raped her repeatedly, cut her
with razors, then strangled her
with a nightie as the mother held her down,
the boy was in another class
where what he memorized and recited
*was important. And as the uncle
and cousins drove
the body to a rubbish dump,
the boy, who had a talent, lay
in bed and wrote a poem about a girl:
adored, cruelly heedless.
Unhampered by his innocence,
it followed the finest models
of tradition, and was perfect in its way.
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