deepundergroundpoetry.com
Finger Painting
for P
We finger painted all afternoon.
It was lovely, innocent,
our fingers like daubs
on an artist’s palette.
Joy like that
cannot be brought back.
Tell his parents I’m sorry,
but now they’ll never see, at least,
their boy grow up and ugly
in that way
that all boys do, one day.
His innocence will never be
enlightened by society,
and made to flee
the watches of the day,
as wrought in masculinity.
He’ll never sit beside
a woman on a train
and stroke her inner thigh.
He’ll never hate his own daughter.
He won’t enforce, perpetuate,
the truth that men to slaughter
made are natural as love, and hate.
He’ll always be a boy.
Six years old and curly-haired,
finger-painting sparrows in the trees.
We finger painted all afternoon.
It was lovely, innocent,
our fingers like daubs
on an artist’s palette.
Joy like that
cannot be brought back.
Tell his parents I’m sorry,
but now they’ll never see, at least,
their boy grow up and ugly
in that way
that all boys do, one day.
His innocence will never be
enlightened by society,
and made to flee
the watches of the day,
as wrought in masculinity.
He’ll never sit beside
a woman on a train
and stroke her inner thigh.
He’ll never hate his own daughter.
He won’t enforce, perpetuate,
the truth that men to slaughter
made are natural as love, and hate.
He’ll always be a boy.
Six years old and curly-haired,
finger-painting sparrows in the trees.
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