Some boys told me
they were on the bus
when it ran him over,
and he was still there.
I found his oily green
head spattered
with blood, his grey
breast open, emptied.
I flopped him towards
a flowerbed grave.
No proud, stiff neck.
No pontoon body, careful eye.
His lover watched me
from across the lawn,
calling with cracked sounds
as I buried him.
– John LeMasney
When you shake your head
while I’m speaking
what I know is the truth
I surpress a scream.
I can feel a protest rising in my throat
but I’ve learned to smother it
with a pillow
and slowly push in a knife
to quiet my convictions
to avoid a follow up sit down
written out reprimand.
I think back to times
when I said to myself
I love what I’m doing
I’d do this for free
I’ll do this
for the rest of my life
When we speak at each other
sometimes in gently increasing volume
and a sharpened tone,
raising our fingers
to note we’d like a chance to speak again
we’re not listening.
We’re just speaking.
We’re not in a dialogue
but two monologues.
You remind us very often
that this is not a democracy
and that if we don’t fit in here
we should leave
and my chest tightens when I hear it.
Having to leave would mean
starting over with
devils I don’t know,
demons I don’t care about,
daemons I don’t run
anymore.
You removed them from my care,
and it was of the greatest valence to me
in this work of service and bits.
And I have always felt
calm in this place,
until recently.
John LeMasney, 2008
Stories of Failure & Kindness 