The Kid

My sister rubs the doll’s face in mud,

then climbs through the truck window.

She ignores me as I walk around it,

hitting the flat tires with an iron rod.

The old man yells for me to help hitch the team,

but I keep walking around the truck, hitting harder,

until my mother calls.

I pick up a rock and throw it at the kitchen window,

but it falls short.

The old man’s voice bounces off the air like a ball

I can’t lift my leg over.

I stand beside him, waiting, but he doesn’t look up

and I squeeze the rod, raise it, his skull splits open.

Mother runs toward us. I stand still,

get her across the spine as she bends over him.

I drop the rod and take the rifle from the house.

Roses are red, violets are blue,

one bullet for the black horse, two for the brown.

They’re down quick. I spit, my tongue’s bloody;

I’ve bitten it. I laugh, remember the one out back.

I catch her climbing from the truck, shoot.

The doll lands on the ground with her.

I pick it up, rock it in my arms.

Yeah. I’m Jack, Hogarth’s son.

I’m nimble, I’m quick.

In the house, I put on the old man’s best suit

and his patent leather shoes.

I pack my mother’s satin nightgown

and my sister’s doll in the suitcase.

Then I go outside and cross the fields to the highway.

I’m fourteen. I’m a wind from nowhere.

I can break your heart.

Source: Vice: New and Selected Poems (W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1999)