I laughed at the way he held his carton of eggs

I laughed at the way he held his carton of eggs,

a loud, reflexive bark by the frozen food.

He didn't snap back or stand on his legs;

he just pulled his shoulders up, a quiet subdued

hunch of the neck, a flinch of the spine

that I recognized from a decade ago.

The face was older, the hair was less fine,

but the fear was a language we both still know.

I was the storm in his hallways and gym,

the reason he looked at the floor when he walked.

I wasn't the victim, I was the one hurting him,

and the ghost of my cruelty just stood there and talked.