Pin the Tail
Through the lens of a childhood birthday party, a Southern poet confronts inherited prejudices from his youth.
On my friend’s 12th birthday,
I yelled at him, “Go back to Pakistan!”
after he tripped me to amuse his friends.
October’s mottled leaves hung
above us like party decorations.
I remember sweaty childhood nights
spent watching July storms
on my grandparents’ porch,
the pouring rain pelting tin awning.
When Pop was quiet, like the sky
before it opened wide,
I
nestled against his flannel,
the police scanner crackle
muffled to background hum.
But inevitably, Pop would spit out
words just like the chawed Red Man
liquor spewed into his cup.
Son, do you know where n----rs come from?
On that October day I, too, was twelve.
Old enough to be wise in cuss words
and whittling knives, old enough to know
some edges don’t need blades.
In my vision’s periphery
younger kids encircled the pinata,
blindfolded, with bats searching out
the victim of their aggression,
others seeking something to pin the tail on,
not even caring what, just laughing,
and knew I was not alone.
About the author
Benjamin Thorne is an associate professor of Modern European History at Wingate University in North Carolina. His poems appear or are forthcoming inRogue Agent, Feral, Gyroscope Review,Molecule, Red Eft Review,andThimble Lit Mag.He lives and sometimes sleeps in Charlotte.