I am six years old. My brother and I are trampolining
on my bed on a summer morning, and I end up on a dismount
between the mattress and the wall, chin on the covers.
My brother senses an opening—or a closing, rather—
and shoves the bed against the wall, trapping me tight.
“Help!” I call, hoping Mom is in earshot. “Help! Help!”
He shoves harder, and there goes the air from my lungs.
“Hel—!” I say, not making it to the final p. Mom comes
limping into the room, hands red and wet from washing the dishes.
“Mom!” he cries, his face contorted in pious horror.
“He said Hell!” Mom plucks me from behind the bed,
not even noticing, which is unlike her, that I am half-asphyxiated.
She holds me firmly at arm’s length, tells me what I already know.
“But—but,” I say. “No buts,” she orders. Your father will deal
with this when he gets home.” Over her shoulder, my brother grins.
That afternoon, Dad takes me solemnly into the backyard.
Asks me to drop my drawers. Tells me that this hurts him
more than it hurts me. But when his hand comes smacking
down across my rear, I can only think through my hot tears,
through the wet snot bubbling out of my nose,
that that just can’t be true. Hell, it could never be true.
–
Paul Willis has published six collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Little Rhymes for Lowly Plants (White Violet Press, 2019). He is a professor of English at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California.