By August Green

He could sit on a couch for hours, just
watching. Ripping

callused skin from the corners
of a thumb with his teeth. He puts his mouth

to the meat of his hand
and bites. Baby-doll hands

marked by the blood-red spots
of bedbugs, circle burns

from cigarettes, scars
from unattended can lids,

a missing nail.
Hands conditioned to destroy.

Everything he touches
turns to rubble.

A lined piece of paper in bits,
a car with no wheels, the door

of a treasured dollhouse, snapped.
In the tub, he rips the head from an action figure,

kneels over its body,
and pees.

Social workers, foster parents,
teachers. Each adult a reminder

of the ones who let him down.
Yet you learn to keep things away.

Spend days where time passes
in increments of time-out.

He slaps me on the face, leaves a mark.
Pulls fistfuls of hair

from the other children’s heads.
I learn to keep myself away.

And yet.
His chubby legs over my shoulders, calves

dangling loosely over my chest. His chin
a gentle pressure on my scalp.

He skims the hairline of my jaw, absentmindedly,
lightly, with his fingertips.

---

August Green is a queer, trans writer living in Seattle with his children. His work has also appeared in Court Green.