That story I told you about suffering /Was a lie. I never wandered into /The woods with a pack of matches. /Truth is I was born there, and there /I ran the weather. Deer left /Apples in my hand, so I didn't think /To cook the deer. The secret of my /Life was my life, hair falling stiff /Past my neck and then beyond /The center of my back. I can't say, /The nights grew cold. But Lord, /I was bored. What words I had I /Yawned. I said I walked away /Having heard a voice or a fiddle, /But that, too, is untrue. When /Ever a man leaves, he leaves /Looking for pain. He will risk /Everything to feel anything. /To repeat, in as many languages /As there are tongues, Fire. /When a boy leaves, we call him /A man. Of course, you know that /Story as well as you know my smile, /How it fit my face after I got each tooth /In your wild world, right along with this /Scar and this one and this one and this . . .

Paradise by Jericho Brown

Published by Ploughshares, Vol. 36, No. 4 (Winter 2010-11)