Anton is marching with his new friends,
their shaved heads
like tongues of fire floating along 82nd
Avenue, the cars

at night honking at them
like they were vets
just home from the war. He is marching
with an old lie in his mouth,

a lie like a rotten acorn,
the acid taste of it making his mouth
salivate, the weight of it
saying no matter what, no matter

if your father has no job
and your mother fucks other men, you
are important, you are
a lost son of a great tribe, you are white

and that means that the bad grades and
bad teeth and no money
and dogs shitting in the kitchen,
none of it matters, you are a prince.
Now it’s like his whole body is full

of acorns, when he opens his mouth
they pour out of him,
who he once was is gone, branches
crawling out of his head like antlers.