I used to think my bones were on fire and
the humidity used to make your nose bleed.
I remember you coming in from the field,
a long stream of dark reddish brown
pouring from your nose to your chin.
The first time I saw it, I thought someone hit you
and I wanted to find out who would do that to you,
wanted to hit them back.
Like the time those boys pushed me down the stairs
to the elementary school auditorium
and you found me in a ball on the ground,
asked me who did it
and in front of the teachers and the principal
grabbed them by their shirt collars
and told them to go to hell.
You got sent home, but you didn't get in trouble;
Dad slapped you on the back in a friendly sort of way.
Didn't say a word, but that was about as much encouragement
that a man like him could show.
Weeks later, he'd turn his back
as you and I kicked each others asses in the freezer aisle at the grocery store
and we'd turn our backs when he wolfed down
slaw dogs and roast beef sandwiches
that his low sodium diet restricted.
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