Kid Skipping Class Calls Me Mr. Faggot
- 6 days ago
- 2 min read
By Nathan Fako
and his friends laugh, then tell me to get his ass.
They mean take him to the office,
not to make a pun. But they do,
and then I’m too flustered to. This little boy
must be a sophomore. He apologizes immediately,
because for weeks I’ve been chatting with him
while he skips class in the hall. I was truant too.
Latch-key. Building rapport. Building nothing.
I don’t do anything. I have to believe
this world we live in will teach him better
than I ever could. I go home a wreck.
I don’t even know his name.
His third apology I accept,
after weeks. I’m a part of this world, no matter
how much language has tried to shut me out.
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The Breaking Sunday
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A shadow where it shouldn’t be, seen
from the second-floor window.
I know you want to cry. All they took
was the blanket over the yoga mats.
It must’ve looked like the thing
they wanted most to see before the shatter
and grab. Glass like raindrops through dry air.
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Then I find my sunglasses, smashed
on the driver’s seat. My fault, oops.
Sometimes things turn up like that, I suppose.
One thread breaks and the whole seam starts
to unsew. We spend the rest of the day
looking for cracks. Debate trimming
the dog’s toenails—afraid of nicking
the quick—wash the windows that had grown dirty.
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Clean just means empty. Everything apart.
Carpet and dust. Light and air.
I want to say something about the way they found
my student’s body last week.
And make that clean. Claim
that the OD was meant to be. If
we have souls we leave the body empty when we leave.
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On Monday a friend
catches me in the hall trying to chew
the weekend before it’s gone soft enough to swallow.
Life is suffering, I
murmur. Calling back, she corrects
Life is suffering                                  and
Nathan Fako (he/they) is a poet from Salt Lake City, Utah. He currently lives in Bowling Green as an MFA candidate in poetry at BGSU. He has work forthcoming in West Trade Review. @nfako.bsky.social
