Since

the day I became a man, I repeatedly read the last rites for the boys

from Duck Island. Every ghost I hear makes the same sound as the boy

that Mike hit in the chest with a baseball bat for stealing his bike.

The same noises he made when he curled into the fetal position; knees

tucked, teeth sucked, begging for his mother. Might as well have been

orphaned boys. Might as well have been orphaned, boy.

I

watched from the corner where the Duck Island boys taught me to

breakdance. Shitty and shoddy cardboard taped together. A tapestry of

ill-fitting folds and duct tape. Piecemealed and handcrafted

like

our dreams. Just petty boys becoming petty thieves who learn they

bleed the same blood as any other boy when they get stuck with a

knife -

and

twisted. Lift him airborne. Rolling stone turns to tumbleweed; head

over heels,

and

twisted. The gospel according

to Michael tells me

I

am responsible

for

Judas seducing Jesus. He does not tell you

that

when Judas pulled at the loose threads of Jesus' loincloth,

he

did not have to wait long for the water

to

turn into wine, or for Jesus to stroke his head

and

tell him everything is going to be

fine.