Rites of Passage 

        Sharon Olds

As the guests arrive at my son’s party                                
they gather in the living room--
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around                                 5
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I’m seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their                         10
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret,* behind them on the table. My son,                         15
freckles like specks of nutmeg* on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa* keel* of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host                                         20
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to                         25
playing war, celebrating my son’s life.

        *turret:  a small tower at an angle of a building like a castle or a fortress       

        *nutmeg:  a kitchen spice with a sweet and delicate flavor, commonly used in baking

        *balsa:  a fragile and very lightweight wood, commonly used in model-building

        *keel:  the “spine” of a boat, running from bow to stern, and around which the boat is built