By Tyree Jackson

Intolerance is thrown at his body in the shape of daggers.
He wouldn’t dare shed a tear if a blade penetrates his skin.
Instead, his body cradles her words as a mother would to her newborn child.
But he is no child to his mother—for he is only half a man.

Her shame for him casts tears in his eyes, and strikes fear in her heart.
She would mold his body into shapes that eventually fell apart.
“My child” she cries “What’s wrong with my child?”
She couldn’t believe he was her son—her only one.