In the deep grass against the hillside
where we drove sleds in winter
four brothers who ruled the park
spread-eagled a boy
with half a brain and a face full of ticks,
yanked his boxers to his ankles
for their girlfriends to see,
stuffed his mouth foamy
with white dandelion blooms,
cackled, “Eat! Eat!”
I watched him squirm,
shoot tears and snot
down the curve of his cheek,
blow fluff balls to their seeding ground,
stutter his mouth to a wordless O
I would see him in supermarket aisles
trying to work out his life,
debating with himself,
toying with celery stalks,
running palm over palm
over the dips of his shaved skull
Not until I stepped off the excursion bus
at the gates of Dachau,
not until I saw for myself the field
where the exiles begged daily for their lives,
not until I reconciled myself
to the blind instincts
of predatory animals
did I weep at last aloud
for the boy who ate dandelions