poem: punch

a five-year-old's face
is a delicate thing,
the skull still soft
in parts, green, pliant,
the teeth expendable,
tiny white pieces of
shattered porcelain
fall from your mouth,
meteorites, shrapnel,
they are baby teeth,
you need them no longer,
once, twice, thrice punched,
and you are a baby
no longer

a grown man's fist
has less give than
a tree branch,
the knuckles more
bite than
blunt knots or
bent twigs

what hurts most is
that erasable space,
between his skin and yours,
the friction, the pull
of tiny capillaries as
they empty their souls
in alarm, a bruise blooms,
paint splatters, teeth,
blood, the shape of your
face is a hideous scream,
from the inside out,
it says please,
no, please

after that,
nothing, ever again,
feels like enough

build a sarcophagus
filled with your wishes,
grow around it, seal it
closed, grow into your
grown-up teeth and bones

one day you
birth a child in
a rush of blood
and tears and joy

the space between
her skin and yours
does not exist, you
keep her close to
your armor of scars
your fingers laced
together at the knuckle
make a wide ellipse, an
orbit inside of which,
she is untouchable
and yours

she is losing her teeth
one by one, there are gold
coins brought by fairies

her tears are thin,
she dreams of wolves,
she loses rings, she
wants one more
chocolate, kiss,
song, or to sleep
beside you in your
bed so much you fear
it makes her weak

her cries are high,
wavering, like an
ocarina in a legend,
the highest notes
open the tomb, and
while you hold her,
you remember the
shape of your face

the rumbling demons
scratch beneath
the grave lid with
long bony fingers
like the branches of
trees in the forests
of a child's nightmare

your hand on her face,
soft, gentle, true,
changes everything,
it changes you,
please, yes, please,
please may she know,
no harm will ever
come to her
at my hand