Even Predictable Explosions Are Scary

“Letting down the team.”

“Not living up to commitment.”

The steam coming out

of the volcano.

I stand my ground

but my toes twitch

ready to take off.

Behind Coach’s eyes heat builds

until hot lava oozes words like “asshole,”

and phrases like “shit-for-brains”

but before they

cover me

I realize

I don’t have to listen;

I’m not on his team.

I back up.

He really looks

a little crazy.

I walk away

fast with the sound of

“Yeah, walk away from me,

you little queer” echoing in my ears.

The halls are empty.

I know

tomorrow

they’ll be

filled with

staring eyes

flapping tongues

pointing fingers.

Still, my pounding heart

slows, quiets.

I’ve always hated Coach,

I’ve always hated wrestling,

and if a school doesn’t want me

because it finds out I quit before

the end of the season,

then

I hate that school, too.