yearbook

i used to draw arrows to my soul
in perminant marker. the school yard 
turned into a shield of film. children 
wearing each other's winter coats. i used to
go to the nurse's office for her to brush
the knots out of my hair. she had porceline hands
& a diving board face. when i was captured
it was delightful. held still & printed 
& distributed amoung the sticky hands 
of fellow brambles. we ate fruit roll ups
on the jungle gym. hung upside down
& felt the blood in our skulls. in one photo
my eyes are wide as a night monkey. 
in another my hair is so short & boyish.
i want permission to say "when i was 
a little boy" but i won't give it to myself.
instead i say, "when i was a yearbook photo."
or "when i was believable." laid down
in the empty soccer field's goal & considered
climbing the structure while other boys
punched their pictures from a cornfield backdrop. 
it's so so easy to become a masculinity.
the edges of the yearbooks hardened with age,
once malleable & now & now & now just
blocks of shoulders. us, standing up against
the brick wall for our punishment. bad body.
bad boy. a cold day in february. fingers
red from the breeze. sound of 
a red rubber ball smacking the pavement.