What if the universe  pivots on me,
My scoliotic spine the center
Of centrifugal spin?
Then you’d all be sorry.

For all the times you beat me down
Behind the bleachers after school,
Left me to bask in Craddock grass
Sprawled face-first in a nest of ants
You’d be sorry.

For all the games of kickball played
In Harmon gym with me at second base
For all the balls kicked at my face
For every pair of glasses broken
For every time you laughed at me
As shards of plastic sight rained down
You’d be sorry.

For each and every single time
You called me by my regal name
Of Afro-Bathrobe, Queen of Ninety
You’d be sorry.

For threatening me with Boy Scout knives
And tattling and steel-toed boots
For cutting my hair on bus route seven
With blunted stolen safety scissors
For making me wish that I was dead
You would be doubly sorry.

And if the universe pivots on me
Then yes, you will be sorry,
For I am the pole
on which all your lives turn
A pivotal prisoner
Praying for reign.