A Middle-School Situation

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A Middle-School Situation

1

It was seventh grade, a time of foreign odors
(sweat and cum and cologne) and growth
of acne, insecurity, and yet some deep need
to attract a mate. So what was important?

Clothes. Shoes. Having my back, my father
bought me the latest Jordans—two sizes too big,
conspicuously bootleg—from the corner spot
in Beacon. “Who’s gonna get that fuckin’ close?”

That was his response to the dunking logo
whose fingers, I noticed, were too few and long. 
“And just stuff the mahfuckers with socks. 
Shiiit. They’ll think you got a big cock, boy.”

2

Still, I felt good clown-footing to my desk 
in first-period. I had a new tee too: Hanes, 
yes—but with a chest Hilfiger flag whose 
inversion my dad said would go unnoticed.

As my blood pressure eased some, seated
I became aware of a sweet stank—shitty, 
but somehow perfumed. I scanned faces 
to see if anyone else was smelling this. 

There was no indication. But it lingered
over me, each way I turned. To rule out
that it was me, I twisted my head farther
here and there, trying not to make a scene. 

I leaned back with a muscleman yawn
and stretched forward as if I were sore 
from lifting. The smell remained, only it
varied in quality depending on my angle. 

Bent forward, the smell was pure shit.
Stretched back, the smell was sweet, 
but nevertheless with a twinge of shit.
Upright, the smell was a perfect combo.

Soon it came to me that the sweetness
was from my bootleg Nautica cologne.
And then I knew, before I even looked, 
where the shit was. Still I had to look. 

Compacted on the bottom of one shoe
was a hefty pile of dog shit. So thick, 
it was a wonder that I failed to notice 
any difference in my gait or balance. 

3

If I had any sense, I would have went 
to the bathroom. But the smell would go 
with me and so everyone would know.
My hope was to escape the problem.

On the lip of the latticed compartment 
for book storage underneath my desk 
I worked the outsole, scraping away 
the shit, crumble by grating crumble.  

I flipped through my textbook, my brow 
crumpled as if I were critically engaged
on the lecture. The plume’s amplification,
plus the grating, must have drawn eyes.

My feet, and the crumbly mound building
beneath them, were in clear line of sight
for all. My sole focus being on removal,
however, I shielded myself from the truth. 

At this age, you are hyper-self-conscious,
yes. Come dire straits, though, you fall back 
into those stealth fantasies characteristic
of children: closed eyes have you unseen.

Soon the size of the pile knocked me 
from my child stupor. I had gone too far.
Fear of being found out overtook me.
And yet the period ended without a word.

4

I went on to the next class rationalizing
my hope. After all, no one said a thing.
Bully types, those primed to pounce,
were there. But even they said nothing. 

By lunch it was in the air that the teacher,
Mrs. Shabazz, had to evacuate her class. 
Assigned seats made it easy to connect 
the dots. But no one ever said a thing.

*This poem originally appeared in Quail Bell Magazine (2017)