Piñata-Related Injuries

-lights on-
I was born without vocal chords.
So when the others told me after my birth
that I'd be killed with a bat,
crippled over
and over,
splintered,
my innards dripping into the frothing
open mouths of toddlers,
I could not scream in horror.
I was born without vocal chords.
 
More of my comrades
were purchased for their deaths.
I slept in episodes,
cried harder than hollow.
Nobody heard.
I was born without vocal chords.
 
And came the day
when he hobbled in,
a man whale,
in Patriotic apparel,
an American Constitution printed
over his diabetic chest.
 
Had I been flesh and bone,
traded a beating heart for
a body to beat,
perhaps I’d be desired
in an adoption clinic that day,
rather than Party Animal To Go.
 
Braces rung me up
by the tag on my toe.
Would you like one of our bats as well?
Oh, no thanks, I’m sure we’ve got a stick somewhere.
I was born without vocal chords.
 
He dangled my paralyzed
hide over a tree branch,
swaying in the easy breeze
when they came,
animal diseases with
their crippling sticks,
tripping hollering
alpha executioner
leading the procession.
 
No English parlay came out.
No whimpers no please
no let’s talk about this no
please stop
no don’t it hurts
 
The father’s greasy
Budweiser grin washed
over his blinded son.
Higher.
Harder.
Get it, Rusty,
when on the upswing
at crayon miles per hour
the home run was struck
against the fruit that bore him.
 
I could not howl
with laughter.
I was born without vocal chords.

Tyler Martin Pursch is a Washingtonian poet and short story writer with work in The Conium Review, Jazz Cigarette Magazine and Meat for Tea Magazine. He thanks his daring friends for taking on this Bohemian journey, and hopes to give a voice to many yet-unknown artists. He is a scenic builder for the theatre and a member of the infamous, underground, Pacific Northwest writing group, The Post Script.