Little Henry Henryville At Twelve

When you are twelve and your mother dies
and you can not find God in the sky
because tears are pouring out of your eyes,

you feel like a monkey, you feel like a donkey
as you run through the fields
he-hawing and kicking.

You howl like Allen the wolf,
your mane like Jimi and Cal,
you lie down and bleat like a lamb,

you wait for the buzzards to buzz,
you’re not the little boy you was,
you ride in Emily Dickinson’s bus.

When you are twelve and your mother dies
you can not, you just can not
think that the sun will ever be hot.

I cried myself to sleep
for week after week after week
and called God a creep.