From the other side of the glass
partition I see the sensei
scolding my seven-year-old son
for forgetting his orange belt,
the obi I carelessly left
on the floor of my wife’s car. Now
a class of children is watching
my boy clinging to attention,
unable to speak or defend
himself, summon the moves he’s been
practicing for months. He’s alone
it seems, the trust in his father
unraveling as he searches
within to forgive this mistake,
the square knot in my stomach cinched
tight, unable to come undone
even after he bows, shoots me
a glance to tell me he’s all right,
hands still balled at his sides, bare feet
staying put on the mat, as if
at this young age he’s already
resigned to absorb a lifetime
of blows just beyond his control.
–
Robert Fillman is the author of House Bird (Terrapin, 2022). His poems have appeared in Poetry East, Salamander, Tar River Poetry, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and elsewhere. His chapbook, November Weather Spell, was published by Main Street Rag Publishing in 2019. He teaches at Kutztown University.