PERSON Poem: The tool, the sharpening, by Hanna Sundman

His mother taught him
when punched – punch, to raise
not a victim, but a response
He’s such a good student
the first step could be skipped

His friend taught him
at sixteen, to tie his shoes
that had mimicked the bow, the knot
but unravelled not at a tug, but a touch
gentle as his jokes
about parents, teachers, strangers in trucks
their fists, their rulers, their school rides

He claimed not to know how he learnt
to sleep open-eyed show a sliver of whites never wide-eyed
enough for clear sight.
But as not a fool, but a child
he jumped from the third-floor balcony for fun
for days not knowing
the arm was broken
for years not knowing
someone should have noticed

He taught himself
to think – right in front – of me:
in the hallway to the kitchen, not moving
with the seconds, a beginner
speaking not with curiosity, but with apprehension:
Would you like a glass too?
Stepping into water I had never thirsted for more.

He taught me
how little one needs
to know to keep someone
beautiful, how his hand curled in
my white-knuckle grip, marking my tongue
when he moved northwest
giving not a warning, but a vow
to share not a word, but a place
with the mother, the truckers, the friends

He said he had learnt
some fucked up love
so I guess his warmth to me
was a lack thereof.