Death of a Child

"Boy! You look at me
when I'm speaking
to you!"

he was screaming -
the thought
tried to claw it's way
through
a disjointed mind.

somewhere, something
registered
being punched - again;

punched - but not
felt.

obediently, reluctantly, child
looks at this man
called father,
known
as Pain, Anger
embodied.

he knew, the child
knew the looking
would lead to greater
Angers; and knowing
the not looking
would be worse still -
that the man would beat
the Hell out of the child
anyway - slowly
eyes raised, looked,
as ordered.

the boy, unsure why
the man called father
was mad, it did not matter.
Not Really - the only
reason needed?
because he felt
like it.

screaming
something about the woodpile
being stacked wrong, perhaps
he had had a bad day. "perhaps",
a child thought
with vengeful desire, "perhaps
the boss had done this
to him earlier?"

this thought drifted
through the detached mind -
the rant and rave continued
and a child began
to congratulate himself -
it was working.

for the first time
in months
he did not

feel

a thing. granted,
it took no effort
to block physical pain - one
quickly grows accustomed
to such things - in fact, you might
say the boy enjoyed the pain
in some twisted way - but
to block out, to numb
the mind, to not feel
the scathing insults? that
was a feat worthy
of pride.

the next thought? to wonder
how long
it would last.

congratulations
transmuted
into a brilliant, white,
light - pain - a world
shattered into the sensation
of kissing a run-away train -
a child, fighting
to breathe.

when eyes opened
he was lying, flat-backed
in the snow, a piece
of wood beside him, a mind
trying to understand
what had happened - right
knee shuttered and a mind
screamed then -
a wail of agony.

fighting
to keep the cry inside, pain
was too great. and so pain
rushed forth in a food
of sound and feeling leaving
those within hearing
no doubt of deep-rooted
sufferings.

and in giving voice at last
to pain, child gives man called father
his unholy satisfaction. he stood
there in his shame, and his
wailing, and his gasping -
a life's torment escaped
from the depths as the father
chucked the wood at the child -
howling in rage at the breaking
of his son's will;

again.

when it was over, a boy was left
standing
in a circle of firewood; nothing left
except to rebuild the woodpile - and rebuild
shattered pride.

_{Drafted as an Essay: December 07, 1992
Essay Rewrite: June of 2000
Essay to Poem: June of 2000 through 2010
Final Poem: Friday, December 17, 2010 @ 04:52 AM}