The Visitor

By Michael Kiesow Moore

I lay in bed, trying to sleep,
trying to forget one more terrible
day in elementary school.
I hated recess more than anything else,
even more than gym class.
The worst things mostly did not
happen in gym.
Recess was different.
They could get away with anything there.
I asked my teachers to let me stay indoors.
They always pushed me out.

That day I peered carefully at the playground lot.
I didn’t see them. Was I free?
I ran out, feeling light.
The sun felt warm on my skin.
I could breathe.
Suddenly I was face down on the asphalt.
One of them tripped me.
They surrounded me, hitting me,
calling me fatso, sissy, crybaby.
All the children of the school surrounded us,
watching my humiliation.
After a while a teacher broke through,
made the beating stop. As he led me
to the nurse’s office, the only words he
said to me was:
“You should learn to fight back.”

As I lay in bed, eyes wide open,
praying to never go
back to school again, I became aware
of a presence, a man sitting at the
end of the bed. He was fairly lean,
not fat like me, and he looked at
me with a kind look, so different
from how most adults frowned
at me. “Just survive,” he said.
“I am your older self. I am here
to tell you that you will get to the
other side of these terrible times.”
I blinked. He looked so real.
so solid. Comfortable in his body.
Could I really grow up to be him?
“This is the worst. Right now.
Just survive. You’ll be glad you did.”

Many years after this night,
sometimes when I am in bed,
trying to fall sleep, I send thoughts
to my boy self, telling him
to survive. That this is the worst.
There will be reason to endure,
that there is another side.
I hope my younger
self gets the message.
I hope that he lives.

Published 2012, in Among the Leaves: Queer Male Poets on the Midwestern Exerpience. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize in poetry.