by Stacey Z. Lawrence 

He is eleven, almost a man
when the belt’s buckle catches
under his skin.
As usual he
grips the kitchen sink
stares at the faucet drip
as she whips.
He never cries, but this time
bloody puddles stain
his white socks, the canvas
of his Converse,
gore trickles down his leg.
She places it on the counter,
bits of his ass impaled
upon sharp metal prong.

But she tidies right up,
sweeps a dish towel across the wound
applies pressure and whispers
sorry.

Stacey Z. lawrence

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Stacey Z Lawrence teaches Poetry and Creative Writing at Columbia High School in Maplewood, NJ. She studied poetry at The Millay Colony and received a fellowship to The Frost Place. She is working on her first book of poems.