Nashville, 1948
My skinny schoolmate, Judy Kay,
lived across the street, daughter
of a Southern Baptist minister.
Safe in the play boat we’d built
in her back yard, I suggested,
Let’s show each other.
Near the fo’c’sle, I pulled down
my jeans, stretched the top
of my white underwear briefs.
Her neck craned with interest.
In turn I hungrily looked
down her belly and saw
nothing. Where was it?
What are you doing?
Oh, no, her mother.
Go home and tell your parents
what you have done!
I ran
as never before
through an opening between worlds.
I ran as the spring breeze,
leaped hedges and fences.
Strong. Unlimited.
My U.S. Keds scarcely touched
the earth, my sweat light.
My circles of flight
led home. There, breathing
deeply, soaring less,
I became a boy again.
What happened? my mother asked.
–Nothing. Where is Daddy?–
Gone to cut switches
in case you’re not telling
the truth.
Thinking about this childhood episode recently, it occurred to me that I never knew (or thought to ask at the time or later, while my parents still lived) whether I was punished for the attempted peek or for lying, or both. Probably my parents didn’t know either. Another more recent insight has to do with the kensho experience the run became for me. In some ways that more than makes up for the vote against healthy sexuality lodged in my musculature by the severe whipping that followed.
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