a striking truth re mothering boys
after 12 years of mothering boys
I still don’t quite get it
we leave for a walk and I ask them
to leave their PVC pipes behind
let’s not whack things
let’s not be violent
let’s be quiet
and look for animals
they grumble, but do it for me
and within minutes they’re clutching
big brown blocks of icy snow
smashing them against each other
after one starts crying
I try again
let’s not beat on each other
let’s just walk
and see the world
the crying one protests,
requesting more abuse,
but we continue plodding along
until they both spy a mullein
at the same time –
a ramrod-straight perfect sword –
they both fall upon it at once
after much wrestling and wresting
they strike a deal
as to who can whack with it
I still have not learned
how much they need
to feel their own bodies
through the vibrations
of something else striking them
how their muscles need to be told
where they are in space
how they need to be sure
they exist right now
with the solid reassurance
only a good thwack will give
