THE FIGHT
My son’s principal calls on the day
of his first fight. First grade.
A boy pushed him out of line,
and he pushed back. Pushing then hitting—
they are six. A white boy’s father
might say, good for you,
standing up for yourself.
My husband says, there are injustices
coming all the time. Sometimes you have to be
the bigger man. He is six. He cries
in bed, I’m a bad boy, and I hate
America. I hate what I can’t stop
it saying to my son. Outside our window,
a dog passes on a leash and our dog
goes crazy with barking. I don’t
bother to stop her—her nose and teeth
crashing at the glass.
of his first fight. First grade.
A boy pushed him out of line,
and he pushed back. Pushing then hitting—
they are six. A white boy’s father
might say, good for you,
standing up for yourself.
My husband says, there are injustices
coming all the time. Sometimes you have to be
the bigger man. He is six. He cries
in bed, I’m a bad boy, and I hate
America. I hate what I can’t stop
it saying to my son. Outside our window,
a dog passes on a leash and our dog
goes crazy with barking. I don’t
bother to stop her—her nose and teeth
crashing at the glass.
ABOUT THE POET
Jennifer Manthey's poems have appeared in places such as Crab Orchard Review,
Best New Poets, Calyx Journal, Prairie Schooner, and Palette Poetry. She teaches
writing at The Loft Literary Center and North Central University in Minneapolis.
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