jr

Tall Arab boy
(rough draft #2)
by J.R.

Tall Arab boy,
there is no need to cut yourself.

I know your mother died.
I knew her, not as well as you.

Your scars would hurt her eyes.

Your father is an artist.
He has given you more than a home.

He leaves, but does not like leaving you alone.

Your scars hurt him in places,
even your young talent does not know.

Your sad compositions, so many of them.
Humans change, but blades dont bend.

You say it's private.

What is your music,
if not those private moments of pain,
in code?

You are tall now.
We look up when we speak to you.

Your long fingers know the keys so well.
We close our eyes to listen to you.

We wait for that which we have every right to know,
but no right to demand.

Tall Arab boy, young composer in blue jeans,
filling this empty town house,
room by room, with sound.

You have your fathers matted black hair.
You have your mothers eyes.

One day, through them,
you will see your own demise.

That which is not meant to be cleaned,
will not be cleaned.

That which is not meant to be shared,
is often shared.

Your condition has been diagnosed.

There is no medication for your torment.

It will unravel in time,
in blood, in ivory.

In the arms of a young woman, your black hair buried,
in the crook of her elbow.

Your dark, slender shoulders,
heaving themselves into her small,
steady hands.

You say it's private.

What is her forgiveness,
if not a painful, private moment,
of complete and utter silence?