It’s an afterschool program for the uniquely abled where I teach Mahi to make a card. It’s the month of grey snow and forcing bulbs, the shortest of months. He uses very little water, as he swirls his brush in the scarlet paint wanting the blazoned heart to shock with pulsating brightness. He adds pink lips, a sticker from a Family Dollar. “Who is this for?” I ask. He continues to work. “Nobody,” he says. His right knee moves back and forth, as he whispers addresses, train lines, connecting buses across town. “Mahi, who would you like to send your heart to?” I ask. “Nobody,” he repeats, and I remember what Odysseus said as he stabbed the cyclops in the eye, “I’m Nobody!” And the cyclops screamed, “Nobody has wounded me!” No one came to his rescue, as his one eye sizzled around a stake until it burst. 

Dear Somebody,

Nobody is asking

         for open arms, a heart,

                                                                           or to be mine.