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Date Posted: 12:36:50 02/26/02 Tue
Author: Porthos
Subject: Wilcox

Wilcox

The darkness hangs
Like old drapes,
Moth-eaten and dusty.
He lies there just
How I put him,
On his back,
Legs lying apart
Forming a diamond
On the sheets.
“I need another pillow”:
His voice raspy and biting.
I grab him one and lift him
Up, placing the sack of feathers
Behind him. His voice softens:
“Do you think God hates me?”
Tears begin to form in his electric eyes,
And I answer him:
“Of course not.”
He whispers to me, his cheeks,
Round and soft, move
With his words:
“The doctor’s say
I’ll only live until
I hit 21,” tears falling
Fast now as from a
Sprinkler in summertime,
“I’ll show them.”
He is 15, but he doesn’t
Look it, more like a chubby
12. His smooth hairless
Skin rolls over his breasts
And stretches across his belly,
Covering small amounts of weak
Muscle tissue battling his MD.
He could walk a few years
Ago, now he has electric
Legs that never get tired.
His chair sits charging up
Next to us. The other campers
Sleep, making quiet noises,
But not Wilcox. His jet black
Hair in a frenzy, he sits up in
Bed, a cherub seeking
Answers: “Do you think
God wants me to stop cursing?”
His words fall heavy from
His quivering lips, “I’ll stop.”
I answer him no but the ruffles
In his brow stay fixed.
“My Aunt says I should
Ask God into my life,”
He looks at me and I
Blink frantically to keep
The water from spilling
Over. I’m supposed to
Be the strong one here,
Right?
“I need to do that,
Help me do that,”
His words hitting
Me like a brick bomb
Yet embracing me.
Tyler, he is a pastor
So I go find him.
I walk past the rows
Of bunks, the rows
Of sleeping children
With withered legs.
I turn and look back.
Tyler’s silhouette kneels
Next to Wilcox’s shadowy
Form. I can hear them
Praying.

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