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Reckoning

Kevin Riley

I was a nice, calm Buddha Baby
they said. Never wanted to leave my crib.
Placid and sedentary,
just what they needed
after my brother’s cantankerous exuberance.

As a toddler, Tommy escaped from his crib
and climbed to the top of the fridge. One
morning, he let himself out the front door. My
parents got a six A.M. wake-up call from the
neighbor announcing that their 3-year-old
had come over on his own and was eating
Cheerios. Tom grew up to become the identified
“problem” in a family that needed some support.

I was more compliant, the one they called
“sensitive.” Like Mom, I had my nose in a book
and knew where to find things in the kitchen.
I had mixed feelings about this special role.
It pleased folks and helped me sidestep Dad’s rage.

But at 13, I wanted Amanda in the tight
sweater to bat her big brown eyes at me.
And when I reached down to grab my pair, I felt
lacking. So I slipped on many costumes,
trying to figure out how to be a man.

I settled for a while on beer and weed and getting
girls to do what I wanted. Karl and I made bets
about who would lose our virginity first, sharing tips
on the chase and steady persuasion.

Now I watch the MeToo headlines. And I sit
in my office holding the tears
of women who got hurt when men
tried to prove something.
Or just took what they wanted.

I didn’t rape anyone. But I wouldn’t want my daughter
to date who I was in high school.
I have tried to steer my son on a different course.
I guess I will have to show him this poem.

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