Tyler Knight

Waiting on the bus at the edge of the apple orchard,
I stick my tongue through the mouth hole of my plastic Spiderman
mask.
Mist sprays the crisp air from
my mouth.
There’s a key tied to a worn, dirty string around my neck.
Mom and dad on their way to work in the City.

Shuffling down the bus aisle, I pass a glorious display of
mermaids, pirates, and super heroes.
It’s magical.
I take an empty seat.

Next to me, a kid in heavily soiled, shredded clothes with
miss-matched shoes.
The ends of the shoes are open, peeled back exposing his toes
like sardines in cans.
In his lap, a jug with the letters “XXX” on the side.
In his hand, he is holding a tree stick.
Tied to the end of this branch, a red handkerchief stuffed with cans.
His face is smeared greasy black, lips colored an exaggerated pink,
and looked too big for his face.

“I ‘m Spiderman” I say to the child. “What are you supposed to be?”
“I am a nigger,” he says, “My mommy made my costume.”
“What is a ‘nigger’?” I ask.
“One of you.”

I sit in the darkened house eating a sandwich mom left in the
refrigerator, when a car pulls into the driveway.
Daddy!

I’m dressed and ready for trick or treating,
dropping my sandwich on my
plate I bolt towards the door the door and hug his
legs.

Dad joins me with a sandwich in the kitchen. We eat
as threads of gold light filter through the blinds;
flittering dust hang in the beams
to dance for me.
Fairies.

“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“What is a ‘nigger’?”
My ears pop, and the side of my face
feels like it’s stuck in a barrel of tiny bees.
I didn’t see his hand.
My cheek is hot, and suddenly wet. I heave my
chest to catch my breath.
“Better not cry. Stop crying.
A man never cries.”
I turn my face so he does not see.
The clock on the wall ticks.
“Ever,” he says.

We walk along the fresh-paved road following other
kids and their mommies and daddies, sometimes in groups.
I do my best to understand the lesson in
the kitchen the way the ant
understands the magnifying glass.
We are all knocking on the 10 houses in our brand new
housing development built-in the middle of the apple
and peach orchards.
When we exhaust the last home in the development we follow
the other groups to the old
farm houses.

Dracula and a pirate get their goodies and move on.
Laughter,
parents chattering.
Dad and I reach the first farm house
the other groups have just left, we knock on the
door.
Cars drive by. The red feather in the pirate hat
gets smaller and rounds
a corner.

The door does not open.
In the window, people are looking at us, not
concerned that we see them.
We leave.
Dad does not speak.
He doesn’t have to.
I follow my daddy
the way a jellyfish feels the pull
of the tide.

The plastic costume pants whisper
hushed prayers as my legs rub with each step
in the Autumn night.
Dad and I walk past the rows of the orchard trees.
In one row, a rusted bi-plane turned into a tractor
soaking the glow of the moon.
A death machine,
re-purposed.

The next morning, I’m determined to make this kid
feel the pain on my face, and the disappointment
from his old man like I felt from mine.
I practice slapping, trying to make my hand invisible
while I wait.
Except in the same seat, there is no kid with
a shoe-polished face.
A freckle-faced kid in a stripped green
shirt.
“Hello, I am Danny Morton,” he says.
My first friend.

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Tagged: Poetry