I found myself remembering the day
in kindergarten, when the teacher
showed us Dumbo, and I realized
for the first time that all the kids
in the class, even the bullies,
rooted for Dumbo, against Dumbo's
tormentors. Invariably they laughed
and cheered, both when Dumbo
succeeded and when bad things
happened to his enemies.
But they're you, I thought to myself.
How did they not know?
—Elif Batuman
It started
in second grade,
the red rib-
bon that never
was, your smock-frock
that expanded—lacking
a pin-sized
scar,
the frowns
from vacancy—
your mother, your
father, who in public
whispered she’s someone
else’s kid ; we’re only baby-
sitting.
You stood slumping
in the corner
of the stage—the obligatory
tree, the one that’s mute,
crestfallen, saying your
trembling’s
from the gales
that weren't there
(if someone asked).
And yes, you
heard it all :
so large you
pulled the cosmos
to your orbit,
a time-zone
unto yourself,
your thighs of
rolling thunder,
louder than Zeus
& Thor,
the day the teacher
signed your name
for Valkyrie,
one who bore a
pizza for a
shield, her sword
a pogo stick,
a sow
among the
cirrus, told
she cannot fly—
twelve years, her
epitaph :
I had fat but
wasn’t. You robbed me
of my wings.
Watch me
soar above you, my feathers
piercing fiercely
through the wind.
Andreas Gripp
February 3, 2025
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