a recurring double sestina

This / young man has bombs for / hands—
shiny, cartoonish, always
lit. Detonation is his promise. Sometimes he
explodes without warning / despite his
best efforts, and has to pay for / an entire
store’s merchandise. Whether at parties or alone,
he / often feels exploding
is his only choice. Walking / by, his
fuses hiss like a pit of snakes. The
parks and forests / he roamed as a boy—all
his private realms of peace—now charred and
unsalvageable. Sometimes, he sighs and
smoke signals / seep from his mouth, dissipating before
anyone can read them. / After his
infamous Christmas speech incident,
even his family’s curtain / of uneasiness
finally parted, burying him
under years of resentment. None of his
sisters ask him to babysit their
kids. Regardless of the
moment’s importance, or / his shaking faith in himself, or
the smallest self-mercy he might allow,
he fears his explosions will always
prevail. Once, he dreamt of dandelions
for fists. Of being harmless and
temporary and / willing. / Anytime he sees a candle
flicker, he winces, reminded / of his palms.
He prefers to keep his / bombs concealed
in his / pockets. Or / tucked under the
table. Or / folded behind his back. Sometimes he’ll
turn away—like he’s / about to sneeze—to keep his hands
from smearing his guests. His favorite
place is underwater. Swimming
in the neighborhood pool, he
marvels at his calm. But his hands
immediately crackle to their prior
state upon climbing
out. One year he practiced exploding his
hands with confetti and flower petals
for his Valentine. / She noticed, but gagged at his
bloody hands. He rubs his / eyes each time he
detonates, hoping to see normal
fingers. But the smoke clears and
his bombs have already
regrown. He's never been kissed. He longs for
affection, wondering if love can be a flameproof thing.
Gas stations preemptively file restraining
orders against / him. During a storm, he
saw a tornado / uproot and
bury a warped tree in the abandoned
soccer field. How he secretly wished for his
chance to be that tree: hidden and forgotten.
Sometimes he / scratches / his itchy scalp,
metal shards shredding
the air. He wants to prove the secondhand
rumors about him are uninformed,
then finds himself blasting all
who come near him
to craters. He hates feeling sorry
when he blunders the formality
of a handshake. / Despite his
love of camping, it frustrates him
how people always
assume he’ll start the fire. He’s worried
his explosions are the only thing holding
him together. / Sometimes he smiles and
shines like a sparkler. Other times he
wants to laugh in
the face of anyone who claims to be hurt. Although
he thinks lightning is alluring,
he is not amused by fireworks.
He finds their fanfare insincere.
Each year he demands
that she stop, but his father and mother
meet preemptively with his
teachers. To warn about his hands.
Who often say they already suspected him.
He doesn’t want to be the
smoke-driven alarm
invading / a room anymore.
He tries draping blankets or
towels over his bombs to conceal
them. Tries drawing attention to every passing
bird. Yet his explosions reveal him for
what he is. He is jealous
of normal and happy people in
equal measure. Despite the
fact his body has healed again and
again, he often stares at his
mirror, imagining gashes
along his hands.
He knows these thoughts of his
aren’t healthy, yet a part of him
still wishes scars remained as proof of his ordeal.
Even when calm and
smiling, he hates himself above all
else. He / tried counseling.
Why these bombs? Why him?
Yet after a few transformative
sessions, his hands
almost / leveled his therapist’s
office. One summer, he started an internship
in demolition—finally, / a place where his
gifts could assist. But after he
destroyed the dozer’s interior,
he never returned. Even the local
museum of unusual and
exotic explosives turned him away, hoping he’d understand
—his passion would be missed, sobbed the curator.
When everything becomes almost
overwhelming, he remembers he wouldn't be here
if he kept those old promises to himself.
How that looming pain once felt so inevitable.
Sometimes he sits alone / in his room and snips
at his fuse with scissors.
It almost calms his mind. It would be
a mistake to think
his hands are what keeps others away.