The boy pretending to be dead

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climbed out of the window one morning:
this was how he imagined dying. He bore his blue

raincoat like a whale and kept the drizzle out.
He wanted to know if anyone would notice

his absence. On the first day, he ate chocolates
up an oak tree, rescued kites for children who were

no longer there. The second day was the hardest:
he went to school and watched from the outside.

In class, the teacher was talking about the importance
of objects he couldn’t run inside to touch.

The same number of hands were raised.
Behind his desk, a pile of other students’ coats.

He didn’t have to know the answer to anything.
He stopped hearing the questions. He never expected

to see his father arrive to collect his textbooks,
his notes from the principal—their movements grainy

and stilted like a WWII film. On the third day,
he knew it was too late, too dangerous to come home:

the smell of coffee and bleach took apart the kitchen,
his presence replaced by his mother weeping.

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