To a Father in Clarksburg
by Bethany Harvey
He was three years old, and the way he held his hand scared you.
No son of mine,
you said, and No queers in my family.
So you put your gun to his head and he laughed and you shot him.
Afterwards, you said, I had to do it,
and, he's better off dead.
You never asked him which he'd rather be.
So my brothers talked about you last night: How many of us would have the guts?
And my neighbor spat in the driveway dust: Someone should give the guy a medal.
And my teachers murmur between shelves of Bibles: Could you do that? To your own child? For his own good?
And I hunker down in the Fiction section.
And I don't say anything.
About Me
Like everyone else on the web, I'm an aspiring author. I'm also an aspiring wildlife biologist, artist, and lottery winner. I'll settle for any two out of four.