Broken Boy

Poetry every Sunday. This one's a little bleak to match the weather.

a big booming voice comes down at last
says in the echo, “hey broken boy,
your only hope is at the end of this rope.
so dance, you beast—dance hard, dance fast.”

so i dance for his joy.
then, pretending not to be hurt,
face down in the dirt,
i smell the bones of my fathers and mothers.

i can see how hard they tried—
but in the end he shaved their hair,
strapped t…