“Um….

iced mint tea?” A request so

unpleasantly electric:

a cattle fence brushes against my arm and

shocks through

chest and forehead.

Somehow pronouns

rearrange to fit

first person:

“She” becomes

wielder of my shame

“they” become

abstractions of Patrick-focused judgement

even though nobody gives a damn about

“it,” my

tool of self-humiliation—in this case, the cup in my hand overfilled

with iced tea splashing onto the oor.

I set down my bag

and hurry to grab a napkin.

How bizarre I must look, fluttering around the

room like

a nervous butterfly.

I wish I had brown-grey wings to camou age myself with the ground. No, no. Again.

If I must be a

butterfly and no longer a

boy,

let me be a