Whenever I tell the story
the most remarkable aspect,
to me, is the boy’s name -
Atley Gay - and how no one
ever said a word about it.
Imagine that - in a Catholic
school in the Midwest. I’ll
be damned. He even became
popular in high school. Back
then, he’d laugh about it and
liked to remind me of it, since
I had learned the correct ratio
of gloss to lip.
He’d begin, “Carrie -”
that’s what they called me,
“Carrie,” He would say,
“Do you remember that
time you punched me
in the face?” I would blush
beneath my dark curls,
pretend to be demure,
but the pink across my nose
was really about how he’d
begun in the middle.
It really began when he called
my friend fat. You see,
my friend was one half
of a set of fraternal twins.
The other half was a
pint-sized twig, also
my close friend. But he
has insulted the one
who wasn't there to face him.
I think that’s what made me
do it. If she would have been
there, maybe I would have
let her do it herself.
This was third grade.
On the play ground. I
was aiming for his nose,
but he moved a bit
so my fist met face
right on the cheek bone.
It’s because he moved,
didn't stand his ground,
that the motion propelled
him backwards, head first
into the yellow basketball
hop’s pole. It reverberated
all across the blacktop
like a gong. The soft
of a boy’s head rapturing
against hollow metal.
I still hear it’s echo
in the cat-calls I get
walking down the street.
He was knocked unconscious
and had a concussion
and was out of school
for a two days - maybe -
but when he came back,
he ran straight up to me
and let me feel the tangerine
sized bump on the back
of his head. He’s grown
his hair long now in his
college daze. But through
digital manifestations
of his image, I can see
how his locks cup around
the bump like two hands
trying to hold water.
