The boy with green hair runs across lawns,
climbs the sharp fence until the dark
opens up and he is stumbling through woods
like Frankenstein escaping the mob,

children he knew once coming his way
with taunts and scissors, the fear of his
hair in their eyes like small torches lighting
the forest path, setting his whole life

on fire. Because we have forgotten
the ending, the boy with green hair falls
out of frame, and we will never recall
if in our last sight of him the hair

remains—accidental, defiant—
or if he smiles bald as an internee,
or if townsfolk finally end their pursuit
after God, in a rare gesture,

tells them how to live. There are only
so many ways a murder can dissolve.
Local bullies trip over themselves
as angels, the world over, catch us

in their arms. We like that kind of story.
We’ve heard it before. Weightlessness. Light.

-Richard Robbins