boys that frighten him, the boys who beat him, kick him.
And then, as if to puzzle, the biggest of them will hold
him down, kiss him, the bully’s hands unbuckling
belts. In this, children are no different.

Anything else in the world seems better
than this image, these boys. Schoolyard, noontime,
the clearing just beyond the wide expanse of cane,
the shallow caves down by the seaside.

Follow me: can words really hurt? Do actions
speak louder? Sissy, homo, faggot. Could these
be real ammunition? There is a beach in Ibiza,
not a cane field in sight. There, in the early evening,

I saw a man bend slowly to kiss another man.
I assumed they were lovers. I assumed they
had known each other for many years
or had met at a bar earlier that afternoon.

The young Italian who had been kissed rose
and walked along the shore toward me. As he passed,
I told him it was beautiful, that kiss. But the mind
is never fast enough, you see. It is never fast enough.

The eyes saw what they wanted to see, saw tenderness.
But there was nothing like that there. The kiss?
It had been a warning. The kiss meant change your ways
or risk harm. Brutish, that tenderness. Sharp, too.

I used to remind myself daily. Gender neutral.
Only use gender neutral when you must talk
about your beloved. And never speak of love.

It will only invite questions. So much to learn.
Memorize all of it. Know it well enough to recite
it backwards if you must. Every last detail.

The expected heart rate of a newborn? The exact
percentage of fats, protein, and carbohydrates
in Total Parenteral Nutrition? The formulae

for calculating blood volume? Everything.
You have no time for the personal.
And that morning, on my last day in the NICU?

Do I remember it? I do. I still remember it.
And this is what I say to myself now: You must
remember it. Along with the calculations, the hours

and hours of sick babies, you must remember it.
That woman, your teacher, grilled you for 35 minutes,
question after question after question. She did it

in plain sight, in front of all the nurses, the residents,
the interns, the clerks, the other students. She wanted
you to answer incorrectly, wanted to shame you.

Question after question after question, you hid
behind correct facts and information. And when
she tired of the game, of trying to trip you up,

she announced for everyone that you were the best
minority student she had ever had. And you took it.
You wanted to be like a duck, to let it all wash off of you.

But even in that praise, there was venom. Even in praise,
she found a way to shame you, single you out. And you hid
behind correct answers. But now, you must make it personal.