For the Deflated in December
Eventually, you come up for air. I've learned,
you could say, the hard way: in third grade,
during recess, Mike Batzer was chasing me
on the playground, and when I twisted, I saw
he was closing in like a shadow, and I slammed chest-
first into a brick column and got thrown
backward, flat on the grass, the wind knocked
out of me, diaphragm spazzing to freeze. Then,
in fifth grade, in front of a bunch of kids
on the platform tower, Mark Stewart, neighbor
boy who'd share half-pints of chocolate milk free
from his milkman-father's cooler, teased, "Look,
Marj has humps!" and I couldn't climb down
the ladder fast enough, cow-heavy, slouching all through
middle school, high school, college. Now, I can't say
it gets better, Santa, Polar Bear, Nutcracker,
Snowman, you who deserve your gargantuan hearts,
pooled on lawns like sunken blooms until dark.
