my father would say.

“LIGHTS OUT!” he would shout.

then I would take the bed lamp

place it under the covers

and with the heat and hidden light

I would continue to read:

Ibsen

Shakespeare

Chekov

Jeffers

Thurber

Conrad Aiken

others.

they gave me a chance and some hope

in a place of no chance

no hope, no feeling.

I worked for it.

it got hot under the covers.

sometimes the sheets would begin to smoke

then I’d switch the lamp off,

hold it outside to

cool off.

without those books

I’m not quite sure

how I would have turned

out:

raving; the

murderer of the father;

idiocy;

hopelessness.

when my father shouted

“LIGHTS OUT!”

I’m sure he feared

the well-written word

immortalized

forever

in our best and

most interesting

literature.

and it was there

for me

close to me

under the covers

more woman than woman

more man than man.

I had it all

and

I took it.

mountain

in high school the classes were arranged alphabetically and Burns

was always seated behind me.

Burns: largest lad in the class of ’39 but all of it was

fat.

he was a gross fat fart.

he was there on my neck, my back.

I could hear his wheezing.

I could hear him shifting his flesh about.

it was hell.

and worst of all the dumb fuck thought he was

clever.

always up to some trick.

like tapping me on the back, handing me a note,

whispering, “it’s from Mary Lou…she said to pass it

to you…”

“big boy,” said the note, “I want to be with you so bad! I can’t

take my eyes off you!”

then he’d poke me in the back, “hey, hey, she wants you!”

I’d ignore him.

“hey, Hank, what did the priest say when he saw birdshit in

his popcorn?”

“hey, Hank…”

on top of that he had body odor.

he always wore the same heavy green sweater,

even on the hottest day.

after each class he’d attempt to exit with me, follow me

down the hall.

“hey, Hank, wait a minute…”

he was slow, he had huge feet in square-toed black

shoes. they often banged together and he’d

stumble as he walked.

he was lonely but somehow I couldn’t embrace his loneliness,

he made me feel physically and mentally

ill.

I had him hanging on my neck for two years.

then one day he poked me in the back: “hey, this one’s

from Caroline…”

I opened the note:

“Henry, you are the yummy yummy man of my

dreams!”

I turned in my seat and looked at him.

he wore round glasses with thick rims.

his red wet lips were twisted into an asinine

grin.

I said, “listen, Burns, if you ever touch me or

speak to me or even look at me again, I promise I am

going to kill you!”

Mrs. Anderson, the English teacher then said for