He began as Frank, with his high 
choir voice and clear faith and shabby
shoes with the toes coming off. At recess, 
he shunned our devotion to all things 
involving a ball and stood
by the chain link fence to chat
with the neighborhood dogs, whose 
names he always knew, or whistle 
like every passing bird.  The nuns 
in their stunned alcoves loved him
and placed him close to Father 
when he came to lecture us.  During
the lesson of Saint Francis, Father’s 
eyes glowed beneficence, all that 
warm mercy 
bypassing us and blessing 
Frank, instead, and we saw how the nuns 
forgave his sweat-brown collar, how his cracked 
glasses were good, and good the father 
he’d never known, his drunken 
mother, and good how God loved him 
best for all the things he didn’t have
and how the things we possessed—
	fathers with jobs, volunteer 
mothers, clean clothes—made us 
less worthy.  Then, it was easy
to change his name from Frank 
to Francis, and catch him no matter 
how fast he ran after school, past 
the steeple of the steel 
playground, and one rainy afternoon 
slam his face in the wet
dirt and the dirt in his mouth and batter 
every surface he tried to shield
with our fists and say, There, 
there, Stained Frances, call 
your goddamn dogs to save you.

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