Unrequited
Peter Dashey used to
chase me home
threatening me with
beatings
for being a sissy
a poofter
a ginger.
I was ten or eleven
afraid to tell my
parents
who would tell me to
stand up for myself
or I'd be a big girl's
blouse.
Every day a different
route
the streamers on my
handlebars flying
with the desire to keep
me safe,
the half-mile home
stretching into two,
five,
as I sought longer
routes
where he wouldn't be
waiting
on one corner or
another,
fists ready to pound
his hatred
into something he saw
as weak.
His brothers were the
same,
sporting bruises from
their father,
walking to school with
his discarded beers
but only Peter had to
work his issues
on the freckled canvas
of my face.
Poor Peter
swept into the recesses
of memory
with the bike shelter
cigarettes
and cricket stand Bjs
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