A Boy Is Just a Boy
until he is given a gun and a story
about who deserves to live,
and who deserves to kill—
this particular order of violence perpetuating itself
like a hall of mirrors his mother polishes.
Boys are just boys
fattened for the news cycle.
When someone circulates a candid picture
of a baby-faced boy with a semi-automatic rifle,
someone sweet is saying,
somebody might have bullied that soft-bodied boy.
Someone sweet is saying,
careful how you judge some mother's child.
Someone sweet is not saying a thing about his race,
or how some mothers give their boys
the guns, the ammunition, the resolve.
Some mothers give them everything they know
as someone else, like the judges,
the defense attorneys, and the fundraisers,
work to convince us
that other mother's sons were never
boys anyone should have ever loved
to begin with.
Boys are just boys,
and I’m afraid
I don’t know enough
about grief and its endless iterations
to raise my boys in this country.
When they don't always get what they want,
their faces dim with disbelief and the rage
of someone who thought the world
was limitless, at least for them.
I tell them, I love you, no matter what,
as I take away some small privilege,
for their own good.
My boys are just boys,
like all boys,
whose preciousness won’t be
real until they’re gone.
about who deserves to live,
and who deserves to kill—
this particular order of violence perpetuating itself
like a hall of mirrors his mother polishes.
Boys are just boys
fattened for the news cycle.
When someone circulates a candid picture
of a baby-faced boy with a semi-automatic rifle,
someone sweet is saying,
somebody might have bullied that soft-bodied boy.
Someone sweet is saying,
careful how you judge some mother's child.
Someone sweet is not saying a thing about his race,
or how some mothers give their boys
the guns, the ammunition, the resolve.
Some mothers give them everything they know
as someone else, like the judges,
the defense attorneys, and the fundraisers,
work to convince us
that other mother's sons were never
boys anyone should have ever loved
to begin with.
Boys are just boys,
and I’m afraid
I don’t know enough
about grief and its endless iterations
to raise my boys in this country.
When they don't always get what they want,
their faces dim with disbelief and the rage
of someone who thought the world
was limitless, at least for them.
I tell them, I love you, no matter what,
as I take away some small privilege,
for their own good.
My boys are just boys,
like all boys,
whose preciousness won’t be
real until they’re gone.
Pichchenda Bao is a Cambodian American writer and poet, infant survivor of the Khmer Rouge regime, daughter of refugees, and feminist stay-at-home mother in New York City. Her work has been published by great weather for MEDIA, the Ilanot Review, New Ohio Review, Adirondack Review, Newtown Literary, and elsewhere. Her honors include an emerging writer fellowship from Aspen Words, a grant from Queens Council on the Arts, and a poetry residency at Bethany Arts Community. She is an incoming Kundiman retreat fellow.
Art: Yuno Shiota,『さぬきの山なみ』Sanuki No Yamanami Sanuki Mountain, 185 cm ×185 cm, oil, acrylic, and oil pastel, 3.10.2022