SPIT

From the height of a swing set
A boy of 9
With dark hair and
Ran out red cheeks
Looks down without thinking
Hollows his tongue
Pools his DNA
And fires his fermented sweetness
On a so-called friend below

He spits.
On me. 

And though aimed at my head
the wet
inconsequential missal
ultimately
shattered my heart

Years later when I am told by another that by
Water sports
he means he wants to pee on me
i sprout forth blooms
of wallflower so far down my spine
that Mary Lennox herself could not find
the key to unlock it

Of course, not long after
To the starting block of my own
own Mark Spitzery 
I look down without thinking and 
Relieve myself
Onto a naked ski mask
Too afraid to reveal the face of a child who wanted to whisper
the dreams of butterflies
More than he wanted to see the color of his playmate’s blood

You told him he was wrong
And I told myself I was right to abuse him for it