[Childhood Killed Ethan Frome, But It Did Not Get To Me]

You were lost already, kid.
Throwing snowballs at my window
only to get beat up
by those other boys.

As if I’d ever let you see me watching.

And you told me every day last month
(twenty-nine, twenty-eight,
twenty-seven, twenty-six)
how many hours, minutes, days
until you were sixteen.

I told you I had never been one
for sledding,
Izzy, and I guess you
weren’t one for listening…

Sweet Sixteen, Iz. That
doesn’t come back so
easily.
Snowballs, those only burst, boy,
when they hit windows,
but bones? Those don’t burst,
they crunch and crush
(and they don’t come back either)

I told you at least wait until
after midterms –
but you never grew up that much,
I guess.