We were so ashamed, so ashamed,
and everybody knew about it, everybody,
because the police came and took him
from his work and the newspaper
had his picture splayed out on Page One,
his blond hair fading into his white skin
so he seemed all face, deformed in height. All
face, his face, our father’s, our father’s.
Some money thing we didn’t want to understand
though we did, well enough, when we read his letter
saying he’d wanted the best for us. So now
it’s Our Fault? my sister hissed, Our Fault, now,
do you believe that? She crumpled his letter
and put it in a bowl. This’ll make it safe,
she said, It’s stainless steel, and she Lit a Match
to burn up Every Lying Word of his,
the Lying Words flamed up as the crumples caught
and I began to cry, crying harder
when I saw our mother in the doorway,
she looked like she was trying not to look
sad, she said, I have good news, she said, Tomorrow
we’ll leave for St. Louis, where your uncle
lives, she said, you’ll never have to go back
to that school again, I won’t let anyone
tease or hurt you again because of him.
Because of him we left Brookline in darkness
next morning for our uncle and St. Louis,
for St. Louis, where we were given
a new last name and our mother became
a teacher again, and so many years
have passed we’ve almost but not ever really
forgotten the shame, our shame, our shame.
—
Wendy Lyon’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Across the Margin, The Anthology of Magazine Verse and Yearbook of American Poetry, Amelia, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Greensboro Review, Grub Street, I-70 Review, The Literary Review, Manhattan Review, Moving Out, Neologism Poetry Journal, Poetry Northwest, The Round, Small Pond, SurVision Magazine, and The Windsor Review. Lyon attended the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Wesleyan Writers Conference and holds an MA in creative writing from the University of Windsor. She enjoys volunteering her time teaching adults and children to read. Her pen name is W. B. Lyon.